At the End of September

The past lets go like leaves,

     Golden and slow, 

Holding on to warmth

     That no longer serves

In fear of the bare,
     Of no shadows,

The sleeves of cold,

     Though impatient for the past
To be replaced,

    Like each brave blade of grass

Pushing at emptiness.

     A world of ghosts

Still hang over the oaks

     Whatever shade

Can protect us from light

     -- It’s all we know,

The patterns of what has happened,

     As certain as stone,

The colors of old
     Call to lure us

Into the whirlpool,

     The leaves swirling in perfect sun,
So loath to lose their life;

     The red that remains
Is a wisdom, a prayer,

     Too eloquent
To be captured for the new …

The separation of the identical from itself,

A gift of forms for the mind

To scrawl the word “loss”.