A Confusing Time is Autumn

It’s a confusing time

this time of year, stuck

between the heat of summer sunshine

and winter’s blustery cold,

mourning one and not eager

for the other in the dropping temperatures

of autumn, preparing us, perhaps, gradually,

in small increments, tempering us

for the winter months ahead, the barrenness

of wood and field and ourselves,

the darkness of our seasons going forward.

Today is hot and dry, and I work

up a sweat removing the fallen leaves,

staying ahead of their falling

in the winds of yesterday, but tomorrow

calls for rain and the chill of moisture

lingering, wet and cold and dreary,

snow in the air, predictions of winter.

So we break out the warmer clothes,

the coats and hats and gloves, the sweaters

and sweatshirts with hoods we pull tight

around our faces, shutting out the elements,

second guessing the weather and dressing in layers,

keeping close, though, the layers we remove, hanging on.

And our spirits, too, are caught in-between

the seasons, the layers we carry there preparing us,

too, for slowing down and remembering; for the darkness

and wondering; for the long days spent alone,

restricted and locked inside ourselves,

confronting the darkness, the limits of our lives.

This is a confrontation we’d choose to avoid,

prolong if we could, too afraid of ourselves

laid bare and open in winter’s cold

and darkness, our own heat cooled now

by the season before us, a time of fear

and shutting out, darkness and light.