NOW IN JULY’S END

We know the weather will change,

along with everything else,

but how can we do justice

and give thanks and praise

for a thing handed to us so freely,

but then taken away, it seems,

when the weather changes

the construct of everything around

Felt by the colors of autumn,

altering the life of birds and

changing all that surrounds us,

transforming its immortal dress,

while our life, always in limbo,

takes us onward through its many turns

toward old age, that wanders with us

toward its inevitable end —

That we are not allowed to see,

nor even to imagine our own demise,

for Nature does not judge us,

as we must not judge our death,

but gird our loins and the lion within

for whatever comes next

Having but the illusion that comes

from self-importance

that thinks it can know. And that is

the illusion that holds us here, helpless

participants in a drama invisibly written,

to be acted if possible, intentionally,

in a complete surrender that is

there hiding somewhere within,

that will appear whether we are able

to see it in that instant or not.