Autumn

While others grieve

the passing of summer,

I find myself quietly coming home.

I have never understood 

why they mourn the leaves,
as though their beauty ended 

the moment they began to let go.

This is the season that has always called to me.

The crispness in the air. 

The quiet retreat. 

The evenings stretching 

a little further into themselves.

The world speaking more softly.

Perhaps I have always trusted

what autumn understands—

that there is no shame

in releasing what has already

had its season.

That weathering

does not diminish us.

It deepens us.

The leaves know this.

The trees know this.

Only we keep mistaking 

letting go

for losing.

I no longer do.

Give me the bronze of withering leaves,

the cool breath of morning,

the silence that arrives

before winter.

There is wisdom here.

Not because autumn

promises an ending,

but because it has learned

how to become more beautiful 

while letting go.