i could die in a field of wildflowers 
if they would have me

i could sift through November leaves
quiet as a bird

searching for answers to 
cosmic questions 

while rain pelts the windows
and the cookies in the oven 
grow tall, like little domes

i could write tales of kings and queens, 
of sorcerers and witches and warlords

conjuring images of a long-forgotten past
which make the present seem somehow 
less frightening 

maybe this is part of the harvest we carry

remember, Nature never gives 
her children more than they need

the real bounty is in small things
that endure 

as the tiny wren 
who wakes the forest 
each morning with his song

on this day, wherever you are
may you have what you need 
to surrender to life 
with dignity and grace 

nothing more, and nothing less