Imperfect Prose { the swelling }

So, why is it that I am always taken by surprise each Autumn?
How can the amnesia be both faithful and fickle?

As the days shorten and the nights lengthen and the temperatures frolic up and down
like the whirling leaves they chase
something in me tightens.

I look around and I feel my heart filling
drinking deep every ounce of gold dappled magic,
soaking up patches of calico and wine and rust.

I am awed to be party to such splendor and
humbly
I receive it as a gift.
Everytime.

But then the memory of it
this cyclical dance of color and light and glory
begins to swell
and I remember

That the beauty and the depth and the becoming
have been there all along

Could it be with me also?
That if I attune my soul to the steady rhythm
and lay myself
bare
before the light
that something in me will
shift?

And that which parades in front of me
be it confidence
or
pride
or
ego
or
self satisfaction
or
swagger
will slowly
and faithfully
slip
from green to gold?