Autumn has arrived in my life,
as it eventually will,
with good fortune,
to all of us.
I have fond memories of my spring and summer,
but I do not pine for those seasons.
In my autumn years, I no longer ache
for the cravings and passions of my youth.
Instead, there is a tender reminiscing.
I am not wise, but I have gained some wisdom,
experiences enough to know, for example,
that when I did not think I could bear the suffering
of an embarrassment, a shameful act,
a bereavement, a betrayal,
of being broke and hungry, of depression,
that there would be a light at the end of
every one of those sufferings, minor as they were
compared to many, many others who have suffered.
My limited wisdom has shown me that all things,
both painful and joyful, will eventually pass in time.
In a large canvas bag, I have dragged my collection of
little joyful learnings, experiences, and bits of wisdom,
collected in the forests of my youth
and along the creeks and rivers of my life,
all along the trail into my autumn, to be planted
in my little soil-filled pots on the shelf
by my window, to nurture me through my winter,
and to be planted in the forest when my year
comes to an end, so that one day, attentive hikers,
still in the springs and summers of their lives,
might hear the whispers from these plants,
and collect them in their own canvas bags,
to be used and contemplated and discussed,
and to finally be dragged forth into their own autumns.
