OOne October I was dying—there were birds in the garden then;
there are birds in the garden now; the sense of October, too: the same.
There is no grief in the sycamore, no gratitude in the remaining light;
there is the bittersweetness of before, the plain word of survival after—
Now I am like the sycamore: this October is all Octobers:
it will sit amidst its pasts, each a chrysanthemum petal
in a bloom of years neatly arranged: I am a whole I can hold:
each memory or desire, poinant and complete—
I am here to have them, Octobers in continuence:
the new leaf tip emerges, then in a deepening green it fades,
falls for the new leaf coming, which in richness also fades.
So much change in the light, so much I can endure;
time’s stillness holds me now, and it holds me so lightly,
grace in every shifting moment, in all the moments that remain.