Summer is asleep.
The sun is radiant in the sky,
But it is low and cool, and
The song of the birds has changed.
A soft wind whispers a new season.
The trees sway in their place
In a different dance than before—
They move softer…like ballerinas dancing with butterflies.
In the summer, with its warmth and long days,
I ran through dry fields sweaty
And tired but unwilling to stop.
The sun darkened my skin.
Now, with the cool whisper of the wind,
My running slows. I find myself
In the middle of a large field wondering
How far I ran. I notice my bones are cold.
Alone, I sit in the tall grass.
The dry shoots and loose dirt are hard and brittle.
The sky is blue and the coolness of the air
Feels like I am floating in the sea.
It is time to go home.
My return is different than my going.
I walk now. I feel the wind’s whisper inside of me.
I touch everything, noticing smells and textures.
The tall grass is no longer an obstacle for my feet.
I feel the raw shoots slide between my fingers
And the extra tug it takes to remove the heads of wheat.
I notice the red in the leaves of the trees.
My hands collected more than I intended.
Holding my collection, I bring it to my nose and smell
The cool air and wheat.
It creates dreams of hot bread and a fire.
Looking up I notice something --
A large tree isn’t dancing.
Suddenly, its first leaf falls gently down. I wonder--
How does a tree decide which leaf will be the first to fall?
Waiting, I watch the leaf twirl and slide toward the ground.
It comes slowly…quietly. The blue sky and clouds are still.
Alone, the leaf rests between the blades of grass.
I pick it up and take it home.
Marc Amesse
