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


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


—Mark Pratt-Russum