About half the leaves came down this week. Bare branches are emerging; light reflects in the water drops that hang from the moss. Once they drop, their form, as we think we remember it, is gone–transformed.

The pattern is to hang on–to recall with longing the warmth of a month ago, to grieve the loss of the leaves, so vibrant, now strewn and mushed on the streets.

But without the thought that establishes the pattern, this moment is astonishing, luscious, fresh, spare.

© Skye Blaine, 2011


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