I want to be still. Star-like, unperturbed as ice. Under this canopy Of clockwork darkness Let the wounds heal over. You can’t have anything Except the fading. The leaves are not yours. Not their bodies, Not their brittle spines, Not the color yellow. But the mere feeling Of autumn can be held For lifetimes. In this, the voiceless Gathering at the creek We learn the wind’s identity. Never ascending. Never descending. Just circling through the trees. We must deal as best we can.