Journal on Autumn, my thoughts and fears.

How can it be, that in autumn’s death

I still hear so much of her breathing?

of life. of longing. of nightingales inlaid with weeping.

I feel caught in a vice of my own sensation

I know her chill and I fear it.

but when golden bright enfolds dead leaves

I can feel the warmth in their lovig

and I love it, too.

I love the dying, the mold, and the fungus.

those threads that hold me together.

I breathe in that breeze and it whispers of winter

I learn that her cold is skin-deep.

So I sigh and I settle

and I love that I sing

of the peace in Earth’s exhaling.