A brief bicycle ride in nearby Eagle Creek Park brings the presence and power of autumn to my senses: the crisp-cool air, vibrant colors, falling and fallen leaves, and a realization of this necessary dying turn of life's cycle. Later, I came across this poem by Wendell Berry titled, simply, "Grace."
The woods is shining this morning.
Red, gold and green, the leaves
lie on the ground, or fall,
or hang full of light in the air still.
Perfect in its rise and in its fall, it takes
the place it has been coming to forever.
It has not hastened here, or lagged.
See how surely it has sought itself,
its roots passing lordly through the earth.
See how without confusion it is
all that it is, and how flawless
its grace is. Running or walking,
the way is the same. Be still. Be still.
"He moves your bones, and the way is clear."