You changed us, September, ushering us so gently from summer’s emerald days into this paradise of autumn.
You quietly guided the songbirds away and filled our air with the music of frogs and crickets. You cradled the rose’s last bloom and brought in a bright blaze of mums to cheer us.
You bathed the morning fields with fog and brought us the harvest moon. You heaped our tables high with the first yield of our fields.
You woke us from our languid dreams and quickened our sleeping spirits.
And now you go, leaving behind on this last day, a beauty that will stay in our hearts forever.
September had, of course, the entire surface of the earth to use as her canvas. Her palette contained every color that eyes could see. The materials at her disposal were, for all practical purposes (and then some), unlimited.
Before she was released to the planet to usher in the new seasons – autumn in the north, spring in the south – she had trained for millennia in the creative arts. She had mastered the manipulation of weather as well. In short, she knew her stuff.
Nevertheless, this was her one and only chance to put all her theory into practice here. And a month was hardly a blink of time compared to the enormous stretch of all hours from which she had come.
To those who watched from her home dimension, it seemed that she worked at lightning speed.
They, even more than we, were astonished by the beauty of her compositions. Inch after exquisite inch, she covered the lands with breathtaking beauty. And yet, how lightly she moved, with such ease, and grace, and joy!
As she arranged the final pieces of her project – a stretch of flowers here, a leaf collage there, great sweeps of gold and crimson across the northern trees – they stood in wild applause. “Brava, Sweet September!” they cheered. “Well done! Well done!”
A dazzle of jewels falls into the stream coloring its ripples. Beneath the surface, fish swim through the kaleidoscopic hues, their world as suddenly transformed as ours. But we alone feel awe; we alone are struck by the beauty.
Along the stream’s banks, purple asters bloom, the season’s last small butterflies playing in their blossoms.
Overhead, a small V of geese circles the lake that the stream feeds. They land and join their fellows, their noisy honking filling the still air. Soon great ribbons of them will fill the sky. But we alone will register the majesty of their flight.
The musky scent of autumn rises from the woods, the water, the sand. And with it our silent song of gratitude rises, too, as we feel our essential unity with this beauty that surrounds us, knowing that, truly, we are never alone.
Even her dark days hold beauty. It sings through the ordinary, the overlooked, as clearly as it sings in the sweeping colors of her autumnal trees.
Here on the rain-dampened bricks, an oak leaf lies, its form juxtaposing with the bricks themselves, with the acorns fallen in their gutters. The hues of this small tableau, perfect in its details, glow with subtle light and capture the season’s nostalgia, the bittersweet farewell to the summer days, now gone.
Only September could craft such a masterwork. With such grace she signs her name as she bows out the door.
September’s opening her trunks now for the Grand October Foofarah. She flings the costumes wildly, laughing the whole time. “A red for you and a gold for you. Ah! Here’s some jade and some jasper! Quick! Quick! Try them on!”
Colors fly from her hands, each brighter and deeper than the one before. The trees and brush dive for them, each grabbing the ones that tickle their hearts, and slide them on. To their amazement, each costume is a perfect fit, as if it were tailored just for its wearer. They laugh in glee.
“Hurry! Hurry!” September sings, running through the forest, tossing colors everywhere. “It’s almost time now!” And zippety-do-dah! The forest was transformed, and it shivered in joy, just waiting for the opening curtain to rise.
Yes, be the peace you want to see in the world. Embody the joy you would have the world sing. Extend the kindness and comfort that your heart longs to give.
We have an overabundance of those things we do not want, their darkness veiling the truth. Let them go. They are but shadows.
In place of blame, give forgiveness. In place of complaints, give support. In place of criticism, give appreciation.
Unfold the layers of your being; let the light of your center shine its beauty to the world.
When the Great Yes sings its light song, hurling its boundless joy across the cosmos, worlds emerge.
Stars are born to broadcast its sound. Plants whirl in a dance. Life springs up to embody its truth.
And this September moment, teaming with living forms, holds it all. Here is the music and the motion of the dance, here is its promise and fulfillment, singing now the endless, unfolding song: Let there be light. Let there be light. Let there be light.
See the complements and contrasts dance! Red, green. Shadow, light. Round, straight. Hard, soft. Rough, smooth.
In a whirl of spice, they rescue us from sameness. Look! Enjoy!
We leap for your joy, they shout. We rise and fall for your delight.
We twirl through the hours to give drama to your day.
We are your laughter and your tears, your gladness and your sorrows, your gains and your losses, your triumphs and defeats.
Embrace it all. There is no separation. Every note that moves us is a part of the grand song.
Autumn comes wrapped in mists and gentle rain, her potential veiled.
Here, a bit of orange, there, a touch of yellow hint at what’s to come. Her first fallen leaves float on the creek’s still surface like a whisper.
Yet her scent washes through the air, a musky perfume, suggesting depth and grandeur.
And the world holds its breath, anticipating the wonder of her passion.
Sweet summer takes her leave now, strewing the world with an emerald farewell. She rolls up her long days and firefly nights, her lush gardens and the picnics in the park.
The shirtless men and bare footed children are gone now. The lambs and goslings have grown. Crates of apples stand beneath the orchard’s trees. Harvesters will soon be crawling over the fields like giant insects, gathering in the beans and the corn.
But on this last day of summer, green shadows dance beneath the leafy trees, and the grass still holds the memory of lovers who lounged beneath their branches.
And we, who stroll across this clovered lawn, bid the summer adieu and press the memories of her days into our hearts.
We will remember you, sweet summer, when the nights are cold, and be warmed by your eternal sunshine.