Standing tall in my grandparents yard
stood a sycamore tree. Each fall about
the time of Thanksgiving its enormous
leaves would fall and carpet the ground.
I would hold one up enamored by its
size while amused by the crunching
sound of the dry leaves under my feet.
I sometimes found a leaf with a tiny
pinhole through which I would look
and see the whole world differently.
In college and seminary autumn brought
a curious joy for a time of change and
transformation. I would hurry across
campus with colorful leaves falling and
falling like tired ideas and incongruent
beliefs on my way to another class.
I watched through the windows a turning
as a new season unfurled before me.
Days would shorten while conversations
and wonderings lengthened. On the
darkest and clearest of nights through
bare branches shone the brightest lights.
I still anticipate autumn with its promise
of relief and release. I can sense the
turning within me even before the colors
emerge and leaves begin to descend.
I find the need to raise the windows
and open the screen door. To let the
fresh air in to stir things up and out.
To sit at the table and breathe it all
in and out. In and out. In and out.
