Under these autumn
trees, wishing
(as they
must be)
that I could just
reach up
and touch
the sun.
What are
the chances
for anything
sentient
of feeling
any ardor again
before
next April comes?
Yet, this
was the contract,
the bargain,
the job:
to respect
the inevitable
coming of dusk,
to laud it
as much as we
esteem the dawn—
for duty
is no more
or no less than
these branches
shedding,
jettisoning children
on the lawn—
dying,
a whole lot less quickly
than slow,
to grudgingly
let
whatever feeling
comes next
(even though
they won't be here
to see it) get
born.
