Lost Lagoon, the 23rd of September, 2023

Here is my response to Kaitlin Curtice’s question on Day 6 of a week of poetry: What does it mean to run toward Autumn, ready to learn from the coming season?

Run toward Autumn 
with heart and senses wide open —
eager for its lessons and gifts.

Now, as you enter the park, 
slow your pace, still your mind —
prepare to arrive to yourself.

Follow the path to the lagoon, 
step by step, 
by sight, by sound, by touch, by smell, by taste.

Gather red maple leaves
 snagged by the thorny branches of wild roses —  
hand in hand, walk with Mother Nature.

Cast your gaze across the water
 to the far shore of fading greens
where the trees are beginning to turn.

Marvel at the Great Blue Heron, 
with his sharp, unblinking eye, 
the skilled fisher of three-spined stickleback.

Turn your face to the grey sky, 
feel the gentle rain wash away summer's drought and dust —
Breathe in fresh, clean, sweet, cool air.

Slowly, deeply, completely exhale and soften —
release yourself to the natural rhythms 
of the breath, of the place, of the season.

You know and love this urban forest, 
all that lives and dwells here
 in every season, but especially Autumn.

This feels like home. 
You feel whole —
and deeply grateful.