Before sunrise field stalks dry into light.
Their color takes golden glows of harvest to wind.
Questions asked in summer
are now puzzles
Of Autumn resolved in the tart apple savoring.
All has slowed.
Leaves hug earth and stones cool.
Yet, we rejoice.
We remember in this starkness that
It takes time to know the gift.
It takes time to remember our heart’s passages—
As juices of quince tumble
Moist cranberry steam.