It is an ancient thing.
When the leaves take their bow and bend to age by casting themselves adrift into the will of the wind
When the smell of decay wafts pleasant aromas into our nostrils
When we harvest the seeds that we had planted in seasons past
When we taste the fruits of our labor, be they bitter or of a great bounty
All these are Ancient things
Lay to rest your burdens, for after the harvest we rest
Lay to rest all your love, for if it is strong it will tend to itself
Lay awake and watch the stars as the hints of winter nips at your fingers
Rest knowing that the ancient work is almost done
And soon enough, you will begin again.