Autumn’s Compass

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedYellow leaves,
fused with blood orange,
bittersweet scents,
crisps of wind,
a breezy weather.

Skinny trees,
clothing laid beneath their legs,
crowning the arrival of autumn—
an invitation for sorrow
or new beginnings.

A canal,
on the edge of living.
A step forward
does not always bring ease.

She favoured rivers
when storms summoned,
tides stretched sky high.
Oceans whispered danger,
yet shallow waters
were not the opposite of adrift.

Safety vests
built her cage—
a comfort mistaken
for peace.

The aching weight of tears,
once spilled into a vast ocean.
Tides rose not for disruption,
but for the courage to feel.

A sacred act
kept her memory alive,
written in secrecy to the stars.
Home was never a place to arrive.

Between day and dusk,
ashes became fire.
The beauty of impermanence
gave birth to the phoenix.

She awakened through loss—
an ache unarmoured,
creativity born from decay,
after a long stagnation.

Autumn arrived again—
not neither, nor or,
but a new beginning
fuelled by sorrow.

Loss is not a rupture,
but a remembrance—
Essence is the compass
A North Star
Through all seasons
Guiding toward within.

Autumn does not choose. It simply is the point of transformation, holding both death and potential in the same hand.

It offers an invitation to focus either to see the ending, or the necessary clearing for a new beginning.

The great truth of the soul’s journey, not a linear path from pain to peace but a winding course through different depths.

What’s man-made may appear as a path, seemingly safe, but it constraints. Where one can still be utterly lost, just in a more visible way.

The defences one builds against sorrow, the emotional armours, the predictable routines, does not unfold as peace but as a comfortable prison.

True peace is not the absence of storm; it is the unshakable knowing that one can navigate through it.

A vest can indeed serve as a saviour but its saving comes with a condition: you can never dive deep.

The compost of old dreams and dead leaves — the non-essential, the borrowed, the false — becomes what one once called loss. Essence surrenders to the power of a cleansing vibrated through release, allowing the most potent creativity to sprout: an authentic self in its rawest form.

Autumn, then, is not an end. It is the universe’s most beautiful and brutal lesson in letting go, so that we may finally hold what is truly ours: one’s own, unarmored eternal essence.

Some poems end quietly; others keep returning through the eyes that meet them.

Writing becomes powerful when voices emerge.
This reflection belongs to the verse of Snarky Baby Marky’ s response to Autumn’s Compass, shaped and reimagined within my own verse.

I’ve opened a 20% discount on paid subscriptions as a way of saying thank you for being here through all seasons.

https://lettersfromimi.substack.com/c9d14cbd

Thanks for reading! This post is public so feel free to share it 🌟