Swaddled against the chill,

I step into a soundless world,

a cup of coffee

cradled in my hands;

steam drifts upward

to harmonize

with the haze of breath,

creating a gossamer ghost.

Silence is broken

as birds trill and call,

singing sentiments;

dull gray mourning,

vivid blue arrogance,

muted gold hope,

vibrant red annoyance;

their colors become them.

The wildflowers

have forsaken the field,

burrowing below,

after casting their seed

on chilly bursts of wind.

The garden lies fallow,

A dull swath of nothingness

the bounty of summer forgotten.

This is the time

for breathtaking trees

to frame the sky,

their beauty, until now,

only understated glory.

In autumn, they emerge

from summer dreams

to strut upon the stage.

I am engulfed,

my soul immersed

in stunning shades

and striking color

as carefree leaves

cavort on the breeze,

while others cling tenaciously

to slumbering limbs.

The forest is enchanted,

each tree nestles

the spirit of loved ones

no longer in reach;

great-aunt Bessie, a towering oak,

good friend Laura, a fiery maple,

frail cousin Mimsy, a delicate birch,

grandpapa John, a mercurial ash.

Some might call it

A wood of death,

and wonder how I stand it.

I see a grove of reminiscence,

an orchard of remembrance,

a copse of continuity;

It is a welcoming promise,

the embodiment of eternity.