Ode to the Soul's Equinox...

Seven days left
and Equinox...
But a season's change hardly slinks
to practiced eyes.

A stand of trees may flaunt leaves, all green,
but the whispered hint of another color is in their bowing:
this one plum, that one crimson,
a feathery spectral sight.

Rows of corn, mature and not dying--nevertheless,
their brown-tassel overlay promises
dry ranks and fading in a near tomorrow.

A field of beans, dappled green
gold:
these can not hide
that haze of mauve, dusting light,
a powder over the surface,
invisible up close, but even from a distance
never present until now.

Everywhere colors gone dusky--
too tired for the vibrant hues of days gone by, but still
not captured by that second wind of autumn glory.

And yet,
that rejuvenating wind
will doubtless come--
See!
Even now,
the overgrowth dies back to manageable mounds,
adding softness more than threat to the landscape;
and the heat of a once-nearer sun no longer wilts the best of life.
Even now,
the clouds pose across the sky more subtly,
making little more than textural change
in a faded flap of blue.

Clouds willingly demure,
Their shade now no respite;
for this sun
--this sun--
throws champagne gold
in beams wherever the lengthening shadows
of ground life
fail to interfere.
Clouds embracing high humility,
first to recognize
this sun's promise:
wine from the plum hills,
somewhere between the gold
and the coming frost.

It is ever a choice
--if you stop to consider for this brief moment--
whether to grieve or to glory;
and whether to believe the sun changed directions,
or you did.