Turning

The old gold leaves are heavy, damp,

the last cranberries almost hidden

under them—bright scarlet shapes

below a tracery of ice—the sunlight

cold, faint, as if from a galaxy away.

 

I follow the path under the storm-

turned birch trees, find the soft brown

of the tender down from the inside

of an eagle’s wing; in the quiet

I hear the echoing cry of geese

arrowing southwards—

 

loneliness

becomes the quick shaft driving

the coming winter home—

 

yet,

warmed beneath the moss, the seeds

settle, knowing that spring and summer

always follow the coldest

fall—

 

a yellow leaf ends the moment,

touches my face as it falls to earth.

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