Traveling to October to Say Goodbye

October is a high mountain
where the aspens turn yellow
across the Colorado slopes,
and the Continental Divide
cuts the sky into two countries.

You enter above the last pines,
where the earth opens wide
and the peaks carry their first snow.
Summer has gone down the mountain.
Winter has begun its claim.

At this elevation,
the year has little left to give.
A few weeks of color remain
before the white comes down
and takes possession of everything.

You climb higher,
past the final stand of aspens,
until the land becomes open ground
and the peaks surround you.

October has no center.
Every direction leads uphill.
Each summit holds a different
amount of the coming winter.

You stand among the aspens
with the whole of October around you,
knowing the yellow will vanish
and the snow will cover the heights.

You could stay here
until the season closes over you,
until the yellow disappears
and the mountain belongs to snow.

Instead, you turn back
toward the lower slopes,
carrying the brief country with you,
the one you entered
when summer was almost gone.

By the time you reach the valley,
the highest peaks have vanished
into the approaching storm.

You look up at the place
where you stood that morning.
The mountain has begun
to erase the way back.

I descend from October
as the first snow crosses the peaks.
The yellow country falls away
with every step toward the valley,
and winter takes the heights
I have left behind.

By the time I reach lower ground,
the mountain has changed.
I carry its last bright days
into a world already turning cold,
knowing I have left a place
I cannot enter again
until another year opens its door.