The stretch of grass Once lush and green is now stunted and colorless. Another bright summer has past and the Bountiful harvest has been plucked out. The earth’s gifts enjoyed by both young and old. Their mouths hungrily gobbled up the bounty. And now the ground is bare, colorless Still with no life. In spring the new sprout shows there is No death, no end Just a new beginning. An opportunity to embark On a journey of inner knowing, Inner peace, inner stillness. Uttering hints at what may come to be. Inspired by Walt Whitman “A Child Said, What is the Grass?”
When I open the window to love, I let in more than just fresh air or a better view. There is love in the air. A love of autumn Bright, true colors shine through Surrounded by the abundance of harvest. Juicy apples and round pumpkins to delight with flavor and possibility. The aromas, the sights, the sounds of squirrels skittering and kicking up brush, a treasure in its mouth. It is survival instinct to save for a cold winter's day. I take a mental note and decide to write what I'm grateful for to reread for myself on a hard, cold day. The harvest full moon rose last night and I watched it take its usual path across the night's sky. In my mind's eye, I am looking at its face as it kisses me across the cheek. Such wisdom and stories it holds.
The blackberries the quintessential fruit of summer. On the brink of harvest in the heat of morning sun. They sit patiently an offering. Do I accept the invitation? There is nothing like fresh fruit the burst of flavor on my tongue. The dark stained hands from the fleshy bells. On my chin and darkened my tongue. The fruit is not forbidden or only for the chosen few. Only to those who happen to look up at the sky and notice that there’s more than meets the ordinary eye. There is some effort. I must confess. Before you can savor the reward of your labors. It takes the body to the edge just beyond reach. With added vigor and strength, I can reach what I desire. It is now in my grasp and my body relaxes and breathes. Sighing as I place the dark bell into my mouth. Yes, I’ll save some for later and share the bounty. But right now this is just for me. This moment. This effort. This delicious reverie is mine to savor. So I do. Not caught up in agendas, past stories or future thinking. Just the blackberries The offering and Me the willing recipient. And I am filled with awe and gratitude for the fresh delectable flesh. Just mine. All mine. I touch the tree’s bark and look up in the branches. There is more than enough for everyone. For the birds, the insects, the squirrels and me. All sharing a Thanksgiving feast. The tree accepts all and turns away none. Is generous and sharing to all who visit her and enjoying her gift in her presence is the true gift.