How dutifully Fall’s coppery leaves 
layer themselves, the earlier fallen having 
spread a first carpet over the dry rug of gravel 
and October grass. Steep hillsides are flush 
with ruddy foliage, the old leaves on the vine maples 
preach how senescence may be a lovely thing.

Yet I cry about the losses, the inevitable decay, 
and pray, with small remaining fragments of memory, 
for my interior loves (like buffing my old 
wooden writing desk with soft cloth until 
it gleams, smelling of oil).

May what is yet to be borne in memory be, 
at least for now, sustained. Here, in this moment, 
I yearn to learn the discipline of seeing something 
treasured, watching it pass, then letting it go. 
Letting it go.