The Turning Of The Year

First real autumn morning
crisp air and fallen leaves;
sound of a harpsichord
haunting the chilly breeze;
rough flannel scratches
my shivering skin.

Build a small fire
from twigs and branches,
breathe it to life;
blow on the embers
of what remains.

How many roads
led to this moment?

Where do they lead
from here?

No answers,
just fall nuzzling
my wanderlust,
making me consider
all my possibilities,
the coming of the cold,
the passing of my days.

Be like
a Long Hunter:
break camp,
accept the journey,
move on to see
what lies beyond
the mountains
just over there,
calling.
  - mce