It’s Friday. Some of these wonderful days that end the normal work week and start the relaxing weekend … I like to share blogs and posts from my friends. Today’s comes from a wonderful writer and poet. See her site here if you want to dig deeper.

Building off Wednesday’s theme of leaves changing colors – here is a wonderful poem on autumn …

these are a shadow

…all that is worth remembering of life is the poetry of it

autumn comes

Autumn comes like a bittersweet sorrow,
as summer’s mournful farewell
to the heat and light of a free run in the sand,
skin warm and spirit dancing.
Now we shrug on our sweaters
and we cup our warm drinks
while the crisp air and triumphant leaves
send a lump to my throat.
What a glory, to be given such a sojourn
into the colder months
when we’ll brace against
our knifing foe, that bitter wind,
and hibernate deeper into our caves
of warm comfort.

I marched in the parade
through my dear college town of yesteryear,
every smiling face turned toward us,
every voice a celebration and a cheer.
I scanned them all for the sight of a few
dear to my deep heart,
and found them all,
and hugged them later,
around the kitchen island by the leftover cider.
I felt nostalgia in that sweatshirt,
that rainy football game,
that warm and perfect pizza,
just as good as I remember it.

It was the ideal autumn day,
thrills of joy sung over
harmonies of lament.
The celebration of reunion
painted with the shadow of goodbye
and the grief we all have borne
since last time.

Gathering in, around perfect chili,
we watched our children learning friendship,
stepping in to re-direct when needed.
The sun warmed the windows
and gave us the strength we needed
to part again, until (hopefully not)
another five years, but perhaps.

Autumn is such a fitting season
for coming and going,
for rejoicing while longing,
for resting while yearning.

Like my son, frantic to take and keep
every fallen leaf and twig,
I wish autumn glory would stay close,
would linger longer,
would stay in my pockets with its fiery splendor.

But its ever a dying glory,
a cello song at the end of things,
and the ache of its beauty and brevity
will only last
until we are finally done
with all our leavings and farewells

——————

Thank you Katherine – you’re words are precious.