tempting autumn

Tonight
I wanted to make a meal
to tempt autumn to walk through the door
have a seat at the table
and stay awhile.

Tonight
I wanted to make a meal
to remember how it felt
when we picked apples in Vermont
and I made her stop at every single maple stand
along the way
until I decided
once and for all
that I didn’t like maple syrup
after all.

Tonight
I wanted to make a meal
to remember how it all works:
that love comes and love goes,
that life comes and goes, too.

The days are dying here,
the night swallowing up the sun
always a bit earlier.
And my days here are dying,
fading with as much sadness
and sweetness
as that last bit of light
left in the sky.

If only
I had remembered
that this was my last summer.
If only
I had remembered
that these days will never come again.
A thousand days lost
to a disappearing light.

Maybe that’s why
tonight
I wanted to make a meal
to remember:
to remember.
That this is my last autumn here,
that these days will never come again,
that the light is disappearing,
and I have to catch it while I can.

And maybe I made this meal
not to welcome in autumn,
but to welcome in remembering.
The apple trees and maple stands,
and these days with me now,
and these days soon to come
in through that open door
stay awhile
and leave.

Summer will leave
to make room for autumn
and autumn will leave
for winter
and by spring
I will be gone.

I want to remember this.

Tonight
I wanted to make a meal
to remember
that I am here.
Now.
Alive.