Sixty summers I’ve seen ease into autumn,
and I recognize this patient tug
of nighttime on the days,
gentle at first like my own hand
easing a ripe tomato from the vine,
then insistent,
darkness yearning
for the tomb of winter.
At sixty a sprain is slow to heal,
and vigor wanes
before day’s work is done.
Tonight, though, last light
like the scent of apples
round the cider press
lingers on summer’s wake
as the orange belly
of this pregnant season
peeps over the horizon.
What will I gather
in the gloaming?
Paint on the cavern wall
the hieroglyph for patience,
And plant me as a seed,
for sixty years have shown me —
winter is a womb.
Feast me now with hazelnuts
and pour a cup of mead
to seal the promise
of a distant spring.
Like crickets and tree roots,
I am beholden to darkness
and care not
what the world in me may see.
Touched by harvest moonlight,
I know my silver beauty,
and novice though I am,
surrender to the night.
Image courtesy of C.E. Price
The Kingdom of Enough 