And it is not pretty. This trail
we love, so verdant in spring,
well trampled by late September,

most of its bright greens fading
into musty yellows, browning
around the edges.

The creek that hurried through
here in April now trickles gently,
water still on its way to the sea,

but far less of it in this dry season.
Even the vigorous poison oak
has burnished with age and

will soon drop its leaves.
This is one reason that fall
saddens us every year.

We know what is coming,
the inevitable losses we don’t
want to arrive. Others cheer

the flamboyance of wicked color
painting the sky, the trees
shrugging off their autumnal

sweaters. Winters, no matter
how severe, stretch in elastic time,
turn us inward, provide

space for incubation, for new
life to come. But look—even
now young sword ferns and

sprightly coastal dandelions
trim the trail. Let us cherish
those, along with ones who

have already gone, the missing
who have taken up the only
permanent residence they

are allowed—tucked into
our softened, open
hearts.