Leaves Falling Eighteen Years

Yellow gold

floating air down to the water

a shimmered morning lake speaks

clearly of this season, the brevity

of its days, another winter, another life 

jealous of the long-lived tree

willingly who lets them go

a silent witness to the squirrels

scampering for nuts and birds

like small messengers in passage.

Rilke’s wagon was his metaphor

laden with its harvest, Bly

dressed in his black coat turned

making through an empty night

we all somehow keep track.