The leaves fall and fall,
and then the colors wander off,
and then comes November’s cold, its grayness,
all reduced to shades of gray, then winter.
First there is some loss, and then there is some loss.
The birches and maples and beeches
stand silently without birds, without regret.
They are not counting. They are not trying.
Once you have let go of all you are fond of
you are empty enough to listen
for a presence only absence can reveal.
October 7, 2019