The sunlight slips into a more golden range
So imperceptibly—but it slips, and of a sudden,
There it is. I ask, How are you feeling?
And I see acceptance in your eyes,
Fine on your lips. It doesn’t matter at all
That the maple’s red. The starlings
Will stay all Winter, and the water
Of the River will receive the sky’s Image:
It’s the time of year to receive—Such
Sweetness and ease in the shortening day,
The lengthening shadows—you can’t help
But relinquish to the paradigm of the leaves:
The thing that flourishes must attend to its end.
But not yet.