The October of My Year

The leaves hang, weary and shop-worn, begging to fall. Dog days wear on endlessly, hot and humid, no parties except those found inside a body of water. October came, dragging Summer with it. No one approved of this. Who's in charge here? Finally, the frost flashed across the earth, to a cabin on a ridge. Firesmoke floats on the wind. The spiders beat a hasty retreat from the flue. Sputtering flame, paper, twigs, bits of bark. Finally, the fire awakens, safe in its man-made cocoon. It drives us out. The windows, doors are opened. It centers, we've learned our lessons, the coals glow contentedly. 

Time away. Sister and I, connected at the soul from birth. Now so many things in between us. Children, in-laws, grandchildren, life, work, husbands, obligations. The universe expands and contracts. Seedlings, fruit, harvest, death, compost. The forests of us are matted thickly with the leaves of the past. Life springs forth, rich earth borne of the many fallen. A tree topples. The walnut plummets with it, sprouting already. Soft rain, feathers of the woods cover, overwhelm it. It can't be seen, but it will survive. Its greatness will take decades to be felt. There is deep quiet there, amongst the cacophony of the birds. The breath of the valley wisps over the mountain, serenity. The world nearby rushes to and fro, but the muted ground stays warm, wrapped in layers of expired life. 

Our hearts cry, laugh. Sweet sleep, then interrupted. Dreaming, thoughts, fragile air. Miles of countryside, far from towns. Crisp sky, promising apples. We were young, we remember it well. We are beginning to see the crest. But wait, we're not ready. There are so many things that could take us now. We know it. It scares us, then not. To march into the future without losing the past. To tread meaningfully without trusting in our own strength. To end well, to remain faithful. These are the tests. Not to the young, not to the mighty, not to the intelligent. It is in the aged, the weak, the downtrodden where we will see God move. Where we are weak, He is strong. The mystery of it, beautiful colors blanketing the earth with their death give rise and nurture to the next season of life. Swing low, sweet chariot.