Season of my Soul

The inner sparks crackle

with warm, hesperidium embers

that set aglow the gilded leaves.

Distant rustlings stir the hallowed ground,

chipmunks, auburn and wild,

tittering as they gather seeds,

always prepared for the potential of winter.

The air beats with the rhythmic pounding

of bodhrans made from reindeer and pine;

the heartbeat of it even smells wild.

My heart toasts marshmallows here,

clothed in wool, knitted by the hands

of my great grandmother.

The edges caramelize, the center softens,

the gooey sweetness sticks to the edges

of the cracks left by summer's droughts.

I breathe in the balm of cinnamon

that wraps around the wholeness,

enveloping it with quietude.

There is no question;

this will be

the most extraordinary becoming