In my tiny space of earth another autumn turns. The trees burst forth again with flames of golds and coppers, burnished as brass.

How can I describe it? Again?

How can I form words that have none? How can I utter what cannot be uttered?

My mind, so frail, grasps at moments–sights–that have no words. But just are. Nonetheless.

Like the hydrangea, deep azure last summer, now dying out. In a cold, frozen overnight, its brilliance faded softly into fine parchment, but was ever more beautiful.

Like the friend I haven’t called in awhile (why not?); but soon as I do, it’s as if yesterday. I will call. I will write. I will cling tight.

Like a long marriage that has long shed the hard stuff, laughing at how silly we were.

Like the same old tree that, as its leaves fall, exposes itself. Is it a dance, a kiss, on a stroll, or all three? I love that old tree. It’s a welcome familiarity that warms me inside.

I’m now in the autumn of my life. Still young enough to be “busier than ever”. Living a full life, blessed with family and friends.

I am autumn. Burnished. Rusted a bit. With glimmers of gold and warmth. Exposed. And I don’t mind a bit. I can be who I am. Honest. Human. Full of love, a dance, a kiss.

I used to be somewhat fearful of aging. But not anymore. I’m quite comfortable with this newer familiar friend. We are, I guess you could say, growing old together.

Ageless.