Each autumn, the leaves surrender in gold to the ground below

Windswept from indifferent branches they fed all summer

The waters know what it means to be battered to and fro

river stones worn grief smooth by careless currents

in choreographed odysessys flocks abandon the snow

and even the earth accepts the sun’s cold shoulder

so why do I hold fast knowing you want to go

when everything else understands the season of leaving