It is early November.
There is mist in the air
As the small dog and I make our way along the rocky path
To the pebbled shoreline.
The autumn woods are filled with shadow
And muted gold, pumpkin, russet-
A tonal landscape against the pewter skies.

I wonder when my eye became jaundiced to the scene
Unmoved by the artistic tapestry of color and hue
Displayed across the Ozark ridge.
When did the gray sky become unwelcome
Rather than the silvered backdrop
To the loveliness of the autumnal display? A bowl
Filled with wild wings and honking voices of geese
As they vee through the low clouds.

Can I restore my sight
To this beauty? Can I recover my wonder
And excitement at the changes Nature bestows?
Will I accept the gift of time the season offers?
Long mornings to bright afternoons spilling into dusk
And deep nightfall – hours to fill and pour out
Into my waiting hands.

I will scrape the tarnished scales from my eyes
And change course into the autumn wood,
Raising my face to the mists and fog, filling
My arms with the abundance of autumns graces-
Opening my heart to its beauty, allowing myself to rejoice
In the gift of its golden time.

For Stephen