“Fragments of a Gathered Season”

I gather the season

the way my grandmother once gathered persimmons—

stringing them along the eaves

until the sun softened them

into small lanterns of sweetness.

I collect their light now,

in a place deeper than my palms,

a memory-shelf behind the ribs

where autumn never fully ends.

I gather the sound of rice fields,

the hush of bending stalks,

the soft applause of grains ready to be held.

Each harvest carries a story—

hands weathered by years,

a sky bruised purple before dusk,

the scent of soil rising like a quiet prayer.

I gather moments too small to name:

a crow cutting the cold air,

a cup of green tea warming both hands,

a child’s laughter skipping across a shrine courtyard

like pebbles over still water.

These are not things one can store in boxes,

yet they linger—

tiny amber beads threaded through time.

I gather what vanishes:

the white breath of morning,

the last red leaf hesitating on a maple branch,

the silence that follows temple bells

when evening folds into night.

And I gather what remains:

the weight of gratitude,

the tenderness of a season leaving slowly,

as if bowing before it departs.

If collecting is a way of honoring,

then let me honor this:

the fleeting, the fragile,

the ordinary miracles

carried in the pockets of each day.

For when winter finally arrives,

I will open my hands

and find that I have gathered

not just harvests or memories,

but the very shape of time—

held gently, like a persimmon

softened by the sun.