5FF9E469-C635-40F6-BE55-5F9800761CAAI want the slightest freckle to fall
off the smile-side of the season’s face

To land on me with a new breeze
blowing through
like a queen of love
sovereign of the land

One I only recognize after
it has turned the corner on itself
onto the next affair

I’d grin in recognition,
knowing that from its soft brown kiss
I’d gather mountains of meaning
and make a home

Then my eyes would widen,
as I laughed from inside
my fifth bone, I’d slow
my endless doings
that try to reserve a place
at the table of belonging

knowing a freckle is just a freckle.

Yet not less than a freckle.

Knowing I’d worship its art,
it’s soft beauty
that will fade with the invisible current.

Knowing the mottled-leaf of me
too will drop

And like you, autumn,
I’d take my turn

Tell the Truth About the Season

B400FC0F-011D-4760-9E60-DCDA3352B1DAIt is important to tell the truth
about the season.

You can try to live summer in the winter
or morning at midnight under the full moon
but eventually, the season is revealed.

It’s Fall.
The world takes a deeper breath
and a sacred pause.

It’s raining yellow alder leaves
they’ve slipped on their autumn coats overnight
dropping yesterday
to the ground like an old story
that no longer makes sense.

They know when to let go
offering the best of their beauty
as gifts to the land
and the next season,
each leaf an invitation
to follow our own turning.

It’s Fall.

The world takes a deeper breath
and a sacred pause
to peer backward and forward
a moment of transition.

We will harvest the things that can be harvested.

But we know the things that must fall
must fall
for the new ground to be prepared
with the composted remains
of what no longer serves.

It’s Fall.
Can we finally tell the truth about the season?

In the midst of the big race,
the world takes a deeper breath
and a sacred pause
while the leaves of the empire fall
out of our hair.

You know of which empire I speak—
the one whose summer’s shoulders
brought great gifts:
all bright
and fast and furious
and juicy and sexy and convenient.

And more. It always brought more.

Whether the more was what we needed
or not.

But it promised too much
and took too much
and now the Great Unraveling has arrived.

There will be a buttoning up.

A shrinking of the shining afternoon.

A shedding.

It’s a moment to tell the truth about.

Perhaps we fear winter
because we don’t yet see
what new spring awaits

but press your ear to the ground
of your being
and you will hear:

seeds of the new dream
already planted
in the soil of our gentle, beating hearts
seeds of belonging
planted in Deep Time.

And we acknowledge finally
there’s no way to spring
but through the lengthening dark and cold
and wet and unknowing.

Let’s tell the truth: it’s Fall.

The world takes a deeper breath
and a sacred pause
and if we allow it,
so do we.

With a Single Leaf

With a single yellow leaf
the giant powers of decline
are inaugurated

falling right through the bottom
of summer, wide as life
deep as death

Sink your ear into its runaway veins
that old hungry bell is booming
and pulling its great green garments up

Can you hear it echoing off the walls
of your luscious huts?

How it pulls the world with
unalterable desire
into the momentous night?

How it circles the seasons around it
with well-shaped gravity?

It signals that the great wolf time
is on the hunt
in the shape of a tree’s homemade gift–
the color of life and death
golden and singing
its eternal song


423CAA96-5116-4D34-BF78-B46063F333C8Press 1 for Autumn

You work hard,
you deserve crisp air
and a pile of colored leaves.

Why wait? Order your season today
The more you buy, the more you save.

Press 2 to fast forward to spring
if the orange is too bright
and evenings too dark and chill.

Do you long for lilies?

Why be satisfied with the pace
of the earth?

Why be satisfied with October nights
when you are feeling like first of May?

Spring can be yours today.
Don’t wait, don’t delay!

New and Improved!
Summer, now organic and free range
with zero calories.

Get yours now!

Tired of waiting for the sun?
Press 3 to get rid of that winter body
and slim into summer.

Miss that cozy-by-the-fire feel
and smell?

Press 4 to have winter
delivered to your door.

With Insta-Season,
you don’t have to be chained
to the seasons.

Have the sun delivered to your door/inbox/sensory input system
in no time. (Check your spam folder if you haven’t received it)

First-time callers receive
a simulated wind-packet,
your very own pocket fan.

Feel the breeze on your skin
when and how you want it

You’re in control!
(AAA-batteries not included)

Free shipping and handling on orders
of over three elements.

Thank you for your order–
your product will arrive in three minutes.

**Free gift if you order now, for a limited time only:
Your own personalized moon
injection-molded with colored plastic
and engraved with your very own initials.
Keep your moon inside with you
so you never have to go outside.

As You Now Close Your Eyes

4742FE70-9A05-4E6D-A6CD-2B59E6537445Persephone, are you not the author of your own notes?

Are you not indeed your own mother living inside your seasoned gown?

The underworld ties your hands down in the unlit palaces
but what of your lungs and legs
and the crown upon your head?

Lather the golden leaves on your dusky skin.

Pour weeds from your eyes
and cry flowers.

Laugh dark and riotously to rival the rain.

I believe in you—it’s going to be ok.

But you don’t need me to lend belief—-the Earth will soon pour you out.

Whose permission do you need but your own?
Do you not trust your own power?

You may forget for a bit, but Spring will spill out of you as easily as you now close your eyes.

All the old songs will be resurrected,
and the new will rise like a fresh breeze.

How Many Leaves Have Landed In Me?

DF99B49A-C1B2-4D1C-9A9B-6261B90C4A3AHow many leaves have landed in me
that I have not yet heard?

That I might shake a cool meaning out of
and launch some season,
some solemn ceremony of better belonging?

That I might compost to build a richer soil?

Might sprout some discourse wide as sky,
deep as the memory of dirt,
seasoned with ripe time?

How many leaves have landed in me
that I’ve yet the ears to hear?