Only in the Fall
leaves begin to reach
their beauty’s peak,
and something new,
other, and eternal
begins to peek
through them at us then
as we walk by amidst all
their colors released at last,
and the year-long light
that had been stored inside
begins to turn dry and thin
as rice paper a certain point
of which is to give birth
to someone’s painting
with old pining or a poem
on a tip of a wetted brush
so that its word or love
may go and ford
over spans of unknown ages.
Somehow it’s odd that the Gods
gave such death and boon
to so many trees and leaves
and to so few of human mortals—
to reach their beauty’s peak
in this way at the end at last,
thus rekindling from the cold
the light’s fire—back
from their crunching embers
to the source of silent stars
as the wind arrives to read,
to recite, and to dust rustling
words of their laid-down verses
and as the mist is moving in
with its spiderweb to reveal
the soul’s yet unseen dimension,
transformation and a different birth.
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