The hour of wake and Soleil slowly peaks out hesitant to show itself. This poem brought me great comfort when I came across it yesterday. Every morning there are new beginnings on my yoga mat. And as I slowly watch the leaves surrender, it makes me wish I were a leaf. And that I am. I leave when I am ready. I let go when the time is right. I love.
There is a sense of cleansing all of this rain. Washing the dust off the leaves themselves. The dust off my soul. Winter is right around the corner and I envy the fortune of being able to dance with the leaves of my forest.
The crows caw echoes and rides the wind’s currents and reminds me of the freedom I have given myself with each falling leaf. This is good. Real good!
My November Guest
My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walked the sodden pasture lane.
Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She’s glad the birds are gone away,
She’s glad her simple worsted gray
Is silver now with clinging mist.
The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.
Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.
Mi November Rain