A hush drifts down the amber air,
Soft gold in every glance;
The trees, like weary dancers, wear
Their final flame and stance.
The brook hums low a twilight tune,
While geese carve songs through sky;
The fading warmth of afternoon
Bids summer’s pulse goodbye.
Each leaf, a fleeting ember’s sigh,
Descends with tender grace—
To rest upon the earth and lie,
A quilt time can’t erase.
And in that hush, the heart grows still—
As if it, too, has known
The beauty found in letting go,
In turning, falling—home.
Therapy Bits 
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