If ever there was a season for magic it is autumn.
Copper leaves shiver to ground; nature composing a last encore of golden hues before all is seemingly lost to the barren embrace of winter.
Though even in the hallowed bowels of decay, shallow breath whispers hope.
I used to walk in the closing months of the year as I arrived into the world; alone. In those raw infant moments of life there is a truth our eyes often neglect, that we are never truly abandoned.
In the velvet spectre of nature’s harvest, as the earth folds upon itself for spring, whether our limbs tread the ground or alight it; every soul will shine.
Now my footfalls echo the stories in my heart, the river in my veins cossetted as time sows each wound.
As the seasons continue their rotation and the moon calls the tide, before my eyes close for the last, I wish upon a brass canopy to which my soul might ascend.