The Quality of Autumn
Pangs of the heart come as the days shorten with a kind of softening bitterness.
What will this end bring?
What will any end bring?
I suspect more of the same.
Wheels upon wheels of an endless autumn, not one step further.
Where is my spring? Has she been lost in the depths of the winter?
A wandering widow who never again finds home?
I lay in the browning grass.
I feel the crunch of leaves in my palms.
I squeeze to feel the assemblage of their wreckage.
I open my palm.
I am the fragments of leaves scattered on the backs of the wintering winds.