These are the days of transformation
Days where wood smoke scents the air for the first time
Days where the light recedes and we grumble
about how the dinner, that filled the home with warmth and
the smell of cooked down onions, celery and carrots will be
eaten as the sun
sets
Nights where as you approach the bed and nudge the opened
window a bit closer to completely shut
you think about what you failed to do in preparation for these days
Days of transformation
When the fields lay home to the unpicked fruit and the trails you never
got to will be iced over,
soon enough.
And so the soul knows the promises we make ourselves
That maybe we will be different, perhaps wiser next time,
but always still full of
grace
—Mark Pratt-Russum