Season of Mists and mellow fruitfulness 🍁

Ah...my dear John ~

I hear the rustle of a Keats‑kissed offering slowly creeping up behind me~

an echo resonating - reverberating as it sighs hopefully.

Tis the Season of Mists and mellow fruitfulness, it whispers.

🍁

I stay comforted within that exquisite tension ~

As a presence gathers around me ~ a breath on the back of my neck,

never quite arriving, never quite gone.

Keats is in the mist, but darker, more anticipatory, more felt than seen.

I hear it though~

a quiet bending of the air,

a small rearrangement of silence.

.....

Something wonder-filled is behind me.

Not advancing close enough to touch,

but close enough to alter the temperature.

There's a strange tingling of the spine.

''''

I continue walking.

Leaves shift with the wind.

Shadows lean to their own heartbeat.

Your essence ~ or something shaped like it ...

seems to tremble in the undercurrent.

...

I won't turn around.

Turning would break the spell,

confirm it, or invite it closer.

The anticipation is thrilling...exhilarating

I keep moving, slowly...though a bit fearfully

my footsteps negotiating

with the unseen.

The presence follows ~ like dusk following light

neither hunting, nor hurrying,

just arriving in its own inevitable time.

I feel watched...but not unkindly.

Observed, but not claimed.

The thing has chosen me as its subject.

Still ~ the Autumn of Keats blesses the air,

never proving itself...nor stepping forward

The feeling stays...lingers ~

familiar...a truth we’re not ready to face.

Footsteps echo... maybe it's your own.

You acknowledge the thing ~ may never see it.

But its nearness shapes your path,

an unseen hand, pressing its weight

into the arch of your backbone, guiding you forward

into the mist.

I sing an Ode to the Autumns of my discontent

Are they gone forever...

My Seasons of Mists and mellow fruitfulness.

My Autumns ... once close friends with the Sun ~

Now Bringing Maturity and an abundance of gray.

Peradventure...possibly, perhaps maybe by chance

maple leaves will still float upon my dissatisfaction

painting water colors upon the season's canvas..

🍁

Season of mists, and mellow fruitfulness,

still lingering at the edge ~ with Keats.

I feel the years turning beneath my feet ~

a soft, inevitable pivot toward the amber hours.

🍁

I walk into this autumn of myself

pockets filled with summers I can’t spend anymore,

laughter that still remembers,

and memories warm as sun‑ripe peaches.

🍁

The light slants differently now.

The pathway asks for a slower grace.

The body, once quick as a sparrow,

moves like a leaf considering safety, ere it falls.

🍁

I feel it in every aspect of the Autumn years

this ripeness within me.

A mature-ness that only comes

after weathering so many storms.

🍁

Now...Let the mists gather.

Let the fruitfulness mellow.

Let the past years, and my now years,

fritter away what no longer serves.

I will meet this turning

with open hands,

with a quiet acceptance -

name it maturity,

name it grace,

I will call it mine.

My beautiful Seasons of mists, and mellow fruitfulness.

🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁