I thought about calling this
“Season of Loss,”
but Autumn knows better than I.

Leaves leave the tree
with no sense of loss;
they russet, spiral, spin away
freely. Autumn air catches them
at their gilded best.
There is no regret.

The maple does not pine
to be evergreen,
but disgorges her foliage in bunches,
in great, crunching piles,
like an heiress, heedless of her jewels.
There is no sorrow.

That which bore will be barren
soon. Fall does not weep for Winter,
no more than Winter laughs for Spring.
They circle round like dancers,
each season a waltz.
There is no ending.