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Don't Rush The Seasons

Don't Rush The Seasons

I want to burn slow fires. 

Walk windy wind-swept gravel lanes.

Count countless leaves

Falling, following the pace of slowing days. 

Capture the rapture ravishing a fallow field

With tumble-leaf frost

At midnight moon. 


I want to feel the warm fade 

Daily, in time in season in me

And stand on the creek floor

Muck-mired in a southern fall 

Near winter-dried, 

Near leaf-fired all blazing with rain color summer 

Through greens hanging on too long to dog days. 


I want to let the pumpkins rot

And sit too long on the porch

'Till winter sneaks by,

And withers them with her wispy veil,

As she weaves her tale

Of warm feasts, warm hearths, mythic saints

And chimney soot.


I want to stare dumb at the sky

Nightly caught in wonder gape

Sky-drawn skywarda motion toward,

Hope deferred and gained,

As Hunter chases Bull

And Pleiades the rains

Until icy dew brings snows and the winter hush remains. 


Don't rush the season but wait for its storm,

And the thick air to break

In gales forlorn,

Remain, remain, now, my simple refrain

Like fog on the lake

Holding your gaze

Beauty breathes in the hovering. 


So, be still.

The first frightful step

Before knowing. 

Photo by Rob Potter on Unsplash

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