In late October
the afternoon sun settles
close to the horizon,
but still warms the skin.
A clear blue sky holds
no premonition of
what must come next.
Only the light weakens,
gives us a subtle warning,
while shadows grow into long
fingers that reach out and
touch the circadian self,
affirm our uneasiness that
an unavoidable change is coming.

How instinctively Nature prepares for it.
The birds know it;
they have already flown south.
The rambunctious backyard
squirrel knows it. Last week
he buried another prized walnut
in the tangled roots of my
potted Japanese maple.
The trees and flowers know it.
Their leaves and petals
drop graciously, turning
back into porous black earth.
All the gold and crimson dreams
of autumn have been swept away,
and soon, bare trees will lean
into the cold wind and sleep.

But like the squirrel, I too have
buried deep some secret treasures:
the smeared handwritten recipe
for burgundy beef stew,
stuck in an old cookbook,
an unread novel hidden beneath
a worn patchwork quilt,
the dusty box of cinnamon
tea-lights, tucked away
in a kitchen drawer.

And I will be ready to bring out
what comforts me, to shut the door,
light the candles, and turn inward,
when the hunger, the rain, and the
dark days finally arrive.

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