She, like moon with no undue pace
but that of her slow wonder,
wanders to where the brambles bend and maples bow
in homage to their yield, gifts

ripe with the season, soft with promise

she puts down her titles
relinquishes her duties
into river time
and loves herself like water
soft and flowing

sauntering like an artist
a nymph at play

ripe with the season, soft with promise

stoops to smell the everlasting
sings herself with nettles
stops to feel the sun and mud
on her autumn skin

winding her way through the day
until with gentle feet and a clear heart
dusk arrives, and a crescent moon opens up

ripe with the season, soft with promise