The Turning of the Year.

A late September day begins
with burning of mist,
scattering of clouds
and melting of frost.
A first breath of Autumn
glides over the dew
leaving the unburied skeletons
of saw-wort and hemlock shivering.

The first few errant leaves
flicker through the searchlight beams
of swirling light,
dodging, taking their chance.
They lay themselves to rest,
shrouded in dull gold, ochre and brown.
They have given everything
yet still the worms will demand more.

A time of dampness,
soft smells,
and gathering.
Seed-time and withering.
Beauty in decay.
A time of endings.
A time for remembering.
Bittersweet.

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