Fall

The leaves are turning early this year. We admire their short-lived beauty with heavy hearts and anxious hands. The worst is yet to come, and it promises nothing, no hope of escape or renewal, only the slow quicksand of the Fall. Why must we fight? How do we hurt each other? Insatisfaction is our worst enemy. Where do the leaves go when they fall? Through the window the rabbits and squirrels horde and gorge, as do we, in this spiraling dance of desperation. When the marten flys north and the mockingbird sings, we'll awake and think it all some sad, strange fairly tale.

Old Zionsville, Pennsylvania, USA
14 October 2009





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