SIX: AUTUMNAL AND OTHER

Autumnal as she goes. And what would make you think of the autumnal hues and all the rest? Well, the months themselves. It’s too bright and hot in the days for a long time, but the season does arrive. Tardy, yes, but we will excuse such a small thing because of how much we love and adore you. Fall sacrosanct like the Eastertide or a true marriage. Thank God for the seasons, the one thinks, because we did not have enough gumption and creativity ourselves. She with her fallen leaves has brought us back to our soul. Now, we will think of old lakes and families, in simpler times, when there was some incredibly powerful presence- of nothing, of God, of possibility. And everything came out from there, continually. We were, as romantic as it may sound, in God, in the Source, in the timeless place out of which all things come. We did not have a word for the perennial philosophy. We did know too well our own religion so certainly knew nothing of the Vedas and so on. But this proves their truth. This proves God and eternity to all. How? Because we were in it before there was a name for it and even before any others spoke of it. But…the hardships to come. Hard people and places, circumstances, pitfalls, and darkness. Yet there is something they cannot take, because the autumn has come again and we are alive, witness, seeing, sensing. There are her trees strewn on the fields and the cold waters run themselves as if with a motor over the river tumbled stones. We can’t say it like George Elliot or some others, - but we can say it nevertheless- our two cents, and it is that the good cold comes in the night and world pushes itself onwards. Someone else will by aluminum boats, in coats, and feel the lake water splash up as the engine goes. Look back over there to the reds, yellows, and fading greens. It’s a time of good death. The flowing click clock of the stars. Blink on and off. The  branches curl just a bit, like when we bring our shoulders up just so and complain lightly and good heartedly that ‘its cold out.’ Its fine and right and the way of things. The land turns barren and takes away juicy fruit and verdant stories. It only offers itself as a small simple poem. People don’t care for much for such things, caught up in the hoopla of paths and the so-called glory of what is thought to be good and well. But…we love the lonesome October fields, - the five line poem saying the same thing. I am here. I am here. I am here. I am here even in slumber because my slumber is not actual death nor is there such a thing. I am here.