#quietglory

Autumn winds; the first of the year are

like new all over again

like you've never lived until,

until, until depth and grace and glory come back for you.

The winds of autumn come in on the wings of the storm,

all light and dark in their battle, no rain.

Can't you feel it?

The harvest travels with it.

The golden light it returning!

- and not just golden -

bronze and copper and brass and rusty

leaves; floating, then flying.

Fall is autumn here,

autumn is falling.

You, I, can smell it on the wind,

The old scent returns;

ancient, undecided, deep,

on the brink.

An awakening roar is fire on the trees.

This is secret and good and

dangerous but all at once safe.

It comes and is gone in a time

that is longer

and shorter

than all it's fables.

Not quite pretty, but pleasant.

It's here, more real than you.

I see myself,

walking through goldfields,

fingering a

sentimental sweater.

This love - this passion -

is here on the winds again

it fills my heart. I reach out for it,

the wind passes through,

but the scent and feeling remains.

This gust of memory wakes me up.

I smell peace and uneasiness,

I sense disappearing into the dead trees,

only inside.

It's all there.

I smell plaid blankets and old sweaters;

I smell it all on the breath of fall.

It's not a blow or a gasp,

its a long,

drawn,

content sigh.

I need it desperately

once it's gone,

how can I forget this for so long?

I'm wearing all my autumn things.

My hair glows auburn, like the

old earth dwellers, remembering the:

past with solemn and joyous dress of

orange yellow red,

until,

until,

until the quiet melancholy joy of the

soft crunch underfoot

luxurious evening sojourn.

The trees rustle, sighing like the sea,

they speak their ancient language,

and I'm yearning, learning to

listen.

They tell tales,

old, sacred, and pure;

tales of His Kingdom

of quiet glory

as only the autumn trees can understand

in their whispers.

I never want to leave.

I never want to leave.

Don't go,

don't go.

Autumn winds must always leave,

but the wreckage of their passing

is a beautiful blessing,

sometimes more than I can bear.

This is wisdom, too.

Wisdom and

wonder and

grace.

My treachrous heart forgets that

this is home,