Here at the half of autumn
when the leaves fall and don’t
fall, every path feels like a path.
There is no ignoring that every
moment matters. A wind comes.
Another half of the golden grove is gone.
Last night I met a man who lost his mother.
He was on a beach in Wales when she died
in Oregon. The waves did not speak the news:
She’s gone. She’s gone. He wishes he
could have just one more conversation with her
to tell her that he loves her. And I want
to tell him she hears what he feels. But
neither of us would believe it.
Tonight I sat on a plane beside a man,
so close we had to work to not touch,
and never once did we look at each other.
I sat beside him, dumb, pretending to sleep.
This is how it feels inside autumn,
as if the structure of things is starting to show—
whatever is glittersome,
lush, green or gold, is falling
away to reveal whatever is open,
emptying, swaying.