But now, silence fills this void.
Autumn’s death embrace holds all
In its musty, stark and bony arms.
We watch the dead grasses flutter like pennants
In Winds that carry across the open spaces and
Whistle through the wood —
A macabre celebration of endings.
We aim our toes toward the hidden path,
The way to your wooden feet.
From three dimensions branching upward,
We find the fourth way
Down into time’s slow gears.
We stand on your roots,
Gaze up into your twisted reach
Bare to the world.
When we leave
We are covered with prickled seeds and burrs.
The dry and dead things
Rattle their bones at us as we cut through the field.
“I dare you,”
“I dare you.”
Then, gently —
A gray rain falls.
And always —
Even in autumn’s musty arms —
The gray rain smells alive.