You almost missed it — a wild


in mid-September


somehow overlooked by bears

and berry pails

and not yet touched

by frost —


and you stopped 

to hear it

humming alone in its night sky skin 

those wordless tunes

of ripening


which the heart of you knows

as the sweet weight

of longing

for what bends 

every stem

with an ending’s 



like a late berry unfolding 

as if it knows 

no season.

Yurt dweller, parent, partner, writer. Knows some things about medicine, life coaching, teaching, and the wilds.

2 Comment on “Ripening

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