In mid-October, standing on the beach near my cottage,
I feel the sharp, deliberate air.
I make every possible attempt to live
steeped in the clarity defined by changing seasons;
in the cool reality delivered in the cupped hands of fall winds.
My attention is drawn to the near-gaudy yellow/red/orange
of leaves of nearby Maples,
sharp in contrast, and falling prideful to the ground,
like the fireworks displays of July 4th.
Here I am reminded of life and death,
and wish my end to be as beautiful and meaningful
in its necessity to nature
as this expression of graceful passing.
I know that I will have many opportunities
to experience the vagaries of fall.
Of all seasons, really.
And joy is taken in this knowledge.
Witnessing the burst of spring foliage
with its youthful excesses;
standing in the quiet intimacy of late winter snowfalls.
All these things represent the book of life
from which no chapter, no page,
no single word, can or should be altered..
I am reminded, too, of my childhood.
The exuberance of body; the utter lack of trepidation.
A life to be faced, for a while, with the naive insight of youth.
And I don't regret one minute of it.
Not even the opaque realities I mistook for truth.
It is all part of the price
of the next level of understanding:
seeing with a mature eye the accessibility of the world;
of the many possibilities of each future.
So I accept the conferment's allowed,
and turn away from things beyond the beach.