under the soles of your shoes,

laying in the grass in the late afternoon

waiting for the sun to go down.

warm days of sunshine

and fifty degrees.
 
 
Indian Summer, the tease of the season

relentlessly relaxes you

coaxes children out of sweaters

and urges you outside.

 
Reminding us that everything is transient

the blue sky and blinding sun

making cold mirrors of ponds and lakes

the burning forest outlined in silver,

overnight becomes the frozen white mountain

cutting into the sky, shaping your view of the distance.
 
 
Like lost loves, forgotten people,

silent memories outlined in silver

against the same blue sky

and brilliant white sun.

 
As in life, time brings the changes

that mark the seasons.

The frozen expanse of the winter

melts into the muddy nourishment that

dries into the spring and summer green.
 
 
And as we get older and romantic

it all begins to go too fast and too slow.

The more intelligent we are the more rational we become

and we decide that experiences are like the seasons

and new ones will come like clockwork.

 
Those who refuse to believe,

and like children never look farther than tomorrow,

are forever picking up the acorns

instead of stepping on them

and saving the leaves

pressing flowers and keeping them forever

writing down what happens in our days

sketching the mountains

tasting the snow