Editor’s note: New York Times #1 bestselling author, global speaker and frequent Meridian contributor Richard Eyre is very familiar to Meridian readers, but he is less well-known as a poet. We are pleased to present one of Richard’s poems each Monday morning for the remainder of this year, and have asked him to preface each poem with a paragraph about its context and about what motivated him to write it.

Poet’s context: I’ve always loved late autumn.  I’m color-blind so I miss some of the reds and oranges of early fall, but the bright aspen yellow and cottonwood gold of late autumn penetrates my soul.  We live just yards from the trailhead that goes up into Toll Canyon in Park City, and I mountain-run my little private alpine loop every day we are there.  This is an attempt to capture how it felt on the last run before the snow came.

Late Autumn

I’m seeing more today, the little things,
The golden leaves of grass,
The tiny grains atop each stem.
And the bigger, perfect harmony
Of these piney woods,
Of smell and taste and sight and feel
And the sound of the stream.

Late Autumn
Leaves as carpet rather than canopy
Except for remnants of bright yellow still
Clinging to their Aspen branches
Or making round gleaming deposits
On the boughs of their neighbor pines

Time for much of nature to go to sleep,
But my time, each year, to awaken,
See fuller, listen harder, feel more,
Think deeper

The black eyes of white Aspen trunks
Peek back at me,
The path leads to my push-up rock
Where I pause to do 22,
Then up the hill to my favorite hugging tree.

I always jog up
Along the winding old logging road,
Look down the ravine at the stream’s pond,
And swing around and down the brook path
To complete the loop,
Accompanied by symphonic stream
Perfect damp-autumn,
Fall-cool tingle air on skin, the taste
Of sagebrush sprig in my mouth

You can worship here,
Without even trying.