Autumn

The autumn air washes over me,

cold and fresh and cleansing

So often I think of fire as the

impetous for washing away

the old and underserving

But this cool of changing seasons

speaks of the death of the old,

the body as it cools and enters sleep,

dark caves where our ancestors hid

treasures of art for future generations

It marks a turning, a change, movement

into the ever-elusive future as if

then really could be now

So I take a deep breath and let

the burning cold remind me I'm alive

and still my thoughts into this

waking dream of color and newness

born out of the death of the old