Every leaf fall is a letting go,
the death of the once-verdant,
wishing that it might hang on
forever to the branch from
which it sprang.

As the autumnal equinox creeps
up on us, the dying has begun.
Dog days have consumed spring’s
green gift and summer’s ripening.

The tiny blossoms on the fuchsia
by the driveway have shriveled;
their delicate green stems morphing
into brittle webs, even as the heat
nudges the last roses into explosive
blooms, and the bees, clearly not done
with their work, keep coming.

Here’s the thing:

There is no end, though we resist
the falling away. As if we have
anything to say about it. As if
we can stay forever. As if we can
keep anyone or anything with us
as long as we want them to be.

But just wait, the dog days whisper.
The inventions of a new season
will emerge, just as the just-right
people will appear—possibly with
friendly dogs ready to offer
love in the form of a doglick—

without our ever having to ask.