Autumn seen from the hills of jamacia
There is no autumn here as you know it
no leaves that blush and fall and die.
Mango does not drop because September tells it to,
the island does not shiver, the sun does not go shy.
But Rasta knows autumn all the same,
not by the calendar, but by the ground.
When the rains have spoken and the earth is soft,
when the yam swells heavy, deep and brown.
Autumn is not orange, it is gold and green,
it is Ital from the garden, reaping what was sown.
It is callaloo and pumpkin from Zion's hand,
breadfruit roasting over fire, Jah's love made known.
It is the time of reasoning, of balancing the soul,
when Babylon says hurry, but I and I sit slow.
When the harvest comes, you count not what you lost,
but what you kept in spirit, what you let go.
No sweaters, no bonfires just incense in the dusk,
drums low like thunder, children husking corn.
Autumn in Jamaica is not an ending, seen
It is a keeping. A gathering. A returning home.
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