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Through my window, a September slant of sunlight
softened by shadows cast by hemlocks in the hollow
seems a plush carpet inviting me to take off my shoes
and walk barefoot into a golden world.
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Summer sun glares, remorselessly highlighting
weeds I failed to pull, dents I’ve put in the car, windows that need washing.
Winter light is weak and pale, helpless against the darkness
always hovering on the horizon, a constant reminder of mortality.
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To someone who’s spent his life caroming
from one extreme to another, a ping-pong ball
sent back and forth by whoever I’m trying to please today,
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September says, “Live in the interplay
of light and shadow,
of cool mornings and warm afternoons,
of tart cider and sweet corn,
of raucous crows and cooing doves,
of grief and grace.”
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The Geriatric Pilgrim: Traveling the Landscape of Faith and Grief 