יָבֵ֤שׁ חָצִיר֙ נָ֣בֵֽל־צִ֔יץ כִּ֛י ר֥וּחַ יְהֹוָ֖ה נָ֣שְׁבָה בּ֑וֹ אָכֵ֥ן חָצִ֖יר הָעָֽם׃
The grass dries, the flowers fade
Because the Divine’s breath blows on them.
Indeed, people are but grass
My feet skate on a mosaic floor;
this mosaic is not made of tile;
it is a crazy quilt tapestry of maple leaves,
colorful hands, woven together.
It’s that slowing time of year, when everything collapses in on itself.
A time when birds whisper their chatter,
when mushrooms’ fruiting bodies plunge through the humus to greet air.
The grass withers and the flowers fall, because the breath of the Lord blows on them
when green canopies metamorphose to gold illumination.
This is the season of silence.
All things curl up to sleep their quiet sleep,
barely stirring
through waning days and waxing nights.
This rest possesses the end and the beginning of all things.
Decay and decrepitude nurse future life that
will not appear until the sun and warmth return.
Then, hidden things will manifest and we will know life again.
I am not exempt.
I too am living my autumn.
Parts of me slip gently to earth, where
they softly compost away.
Someday – soon perhaps, or maybe years from now –
the entire vessel will fall to the forest floor and
join its timbered companions, while
some other, wilder part of me seizes the breath divine and
wings its way home.
