A Flower of Fall.

Just let me sit a while.
Preferably in the sun,
the warmth at the cusp of fall.
so bright I have to close my eyes
and see the forgotten things,
vivid as lips,
as a kiss, long and slow and warming.

Let me sit a while. h
The sun heals. Te fresh air heals.
Time heals.
Or so they say. I have a few scars
that might argue the question,
but they too are warmed.

Let me sit a while.
Listen to the past.
Listen to the now.
What is good.
What is pure.
What is, with no regard
to what might be
or what might have been.
Living in the love that is,
incomplete as I am,
but still growing as I waste away,
a flower of fall,
Warm. A bit bright. And waiting.

Let me sit a while.

About this poem

A poem about the cusp of fall, or Indian Summer as most call it. A poem about the flows and ebbs of love and life. A poem about aging. A poem about prayer, often silent and groaning. A poem about faith. Poetry is never about one thing.

I stole the lines about pure and good from Phillipians 4:8.

The photograph was taken at the Hancock Shaker Museum in Hancock, Mass.