Our vegetables are finished,
their remains haunt forgotten gardens.
The leaves plummet to splendid deaths
in raucous evening gowns
of gold, copper, scarlet, tangerine.
Be kind to yourself,
You can’t do it all and there is so much to do.
Everything that has grown must be eaten
To the bone
To the core
To the seed.
Here is shedding,
the next layer beneath the surface
after wrappings are crumpled and tossed aside.
Here is the breath.
Science is a strange language:
proving things to each other,
predicting what will happen again.
All we do sometimes is
amble towards
the one dark mystery
and pretend it is not our destination.
Autumn kept silent
during summer stories
smug in the sunlight
Now
muted light hits the whisper of the trees
innocent, full, so many leaves to lose.
Crawl down,
curl up and speak sweetly to yourself.
You are not dead yet,
even if you can’t get up
right away.
You recline
in the place
where life will find you
again
eventually.
The first frost arrives
in its full voice,
smoky, piercing.
