Esplendora coming to the barn
You may need to remember the curve of road
When driving over the mountain at night,
As all is lost in the low beam of searching headlights.
Sometimes, fog is what is left over from an Indian summer shower,
Holding fast to desire for moisture on a warm afternoon.
I know the science of cooling air, longer nights, humidity, and dew point.
But seeing from high above, the thick sea of fog with its island hills
Down below in these misty Appalachian valleys, there is a conjuring
Of ancestral spells, something ancient, just beyond remembering.
I hear a distant tune, a song in a minor key.
Early morning, I find the sun still behind the slowly lifting veil,
A muted white circle, existing in that certain stillness of “fog quiet”.
Even birdsong is suspended within it.
Walking under the shadowless forest canopy,
Leaves, just beginning to turn, release a steady, muffled drip,
Mosses and ferns by the creek, so green,
Shine against the surrounding rock and grey air.
October shows off, and distracted by the dazzle
We don’t mourn the coming loss of color against the sky.
But today, I whistle and watch the horses appear
Out of a silvery shroud, nickering, ready for grain.
Feeling the familiar bittersweetness of Autumn as they join me,
Rubbing their soft, furry coats, heavier now,
I take a long deep breath and exhale slowly.
Two tears meet the smile below them.
I am grateful for the slow revelation nature offers —
The ephemeral curtain, this seasonal pause between what was,
And what is to come. A secret shared, a memory recalled.
A longing lived, once again.