No, I’m not as old as the hills
that rise around me as I rest
amid the tawny grasses of this
holler.
But here in late October
of my seventy-eighth year, they
feel like age-mates to me. The
greens of spring and summer
are long-gone from the trees.
Leaves of crimson, burnt
umber and amber flare against
the darkening sky, defying
with beauty the soon-to-end
cycle, one more round of
life and love in this long-
time landscape of suffering.
The ancient earth takes it all in,
indifferent and compassionate
in the same breath. This is how
I want to live, my failings and
lost opportunities forgiven
as they are under this sun –
released into their triviality,
resurrected as new life –
en route to dying with
thanks and praise and no
mind-begotten regrets.
--Parker J.
Palmer,
Appalachian Autumn .
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