It’s the season of saying goodbye.

*

Listen.
Every reed in the field is singing,
the old song of the reed
cut from its riverbank,
longing to go home,
and the whole hillside joins in
until the chorus forgets
it was ever many voices.

*

Above, the cobalt spreads
wide and deep,
the open robe of the Friend,
and nothing hides.

*

Below, the pond lies still,
a mirror wiped clean,
and the light that falls into it
looks back at itself
and smiles.

*

On the horizon,
trees stand like crystal,
a line as thin as breath,
the veil between this world and the next
worn almost through.

*

Then the Beloved
breathes into the reed.
The air fills with a longing
that needs no translation.
Every creature knows this tongue.
It is the first language,
spoken before we were born.

*

The finch and the grasses
whisper together
the way lovers whisper
when they think no one is near,
and their secret rises
like incense
to the One who already knows it.

*

All creation is taking leave,
and gladly,
the way the moth goes to the flame,
not losing itself
but finding itself in the light.

Each leaf lets go
the way a drop
lets go into the sea.

It’s the season of saying goodbye.

*

And hearts become guest houses,
even an old heart like mine,
seventy-seven autumns in it.
Sorrow comes in,
joy comes in,
and I welcome them both,
because each one
was sent from beyond.

*

Don’t you taste it?
The wine of love,
poured in the falling of the leaves,
sweet and a little sharp,
the thin edge of eternity
hidden in the pleasure of letting go.

The Fall is the promise
of returning in the eternal realm.

*

From You we came.
To You we return.
Each goodbye
is a door.

*

I must praise the Creator.