Although I’ve made a kind of peace
with those I loved who are already dead,
bronze bells of autumn, in their minor key,
toll for the losses still ahead.
The weather tells a narrative of change;
the wind prepares a path the geese will take.
This frost is beautiful, and yet it kills.
The harvest moon drowns in the lake.
I love the dark (it moves so gradually)
but love still more all it will erase:
these swarming leaves, this pungent smoky air,
the youth you were, your aging face.
