Poem: Hay Season

You can smell the season in the air.
The hay, cut, fluffed, lined, baled.
The leaves, suddenly colored, falling.
The perfume of flowers replace by autumn’s mold.

You can hear the season.
The rustle of leaves, suddenly dry and crisp.
The distant call of coyotes settling in for the season,
The early morning shotguns of hunters.
A dearth of tree peepers, already gone in hibernation.

You feel it.
A change in the wind. Cooler, more insistent.
The rain becomes a cutting thing.
Hints of winter in every breeze.
Only the sun, when you stand in it, remains warm,
but just barely.

The grass ceases to grow. It begins to turn brown.
The trees strip for the season.
In the morning the furnace runs
with its half burnt, half stale smell.
You drink more coffee.
The cats spend less time outside.

They know, the cats.
They know before you that change is coming.
They allow it’s change. A matter of fact
not worth the complaining.

Better to simply rejoice in how far you can see
without leaves blocking your way;
to plant for the spring;
enjoy the rediscovery of cuddling in bed
later in the morning,
that extra warmth that holds you through
each winter.

About this poem.

The woman I love and I were talking late last night about all the changes in our lives in the few short years we have been together, many of them hard. Most of them hard. And too, our gratitude in having found each other just as all those changes erupted, and being able to lean on each other’s love in this time.

Seasons change. Life changes. Love is forever.

Tom

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