Or an old one, as the case may be,
for we fall into autumnal shadows

today, the lengthening ones,
the light fading more quickly,

winter on its way, the radiant
days darkening with an inkling

of farewell reverberating into
chillier mornings. I look up

at the old sycamore, its leaves
beginning their annual fade into

pewter green before the eventual
crisp and fall. So many people

I know who love this interval
between summer and winter,

but this year the newly fallen
surround me, their departure

shrouded in a haze of green
smoke drifting through,

the herb garden going to seed.
No matter how I color it,

this is the dying season,
though I remind myself that

this, too, is meant to be—
the sun crossing the equator

from north to south, lingering for
a moment over the planet’s middle,

as we continue sailing along
at a steady pace, undisturbed,

day and night of equal length.
this instant of perfect balance—

one I can’t tamper with, neither
good nor bad, in this continuously

changing, maddeningly beautiful
universe.