Another death, because it’s in the air,
a day finished, full of rolling clouds
and digging leaf mould beneath the trees.
It ends, the year when the trees give in
to the restless wind and the need to rest,
let the seeds set, the squirrels feast.
It dies, a little part of us,
with each turn of the earth from the sun,
and the night comes cold
and whispering of the dark,
the frost and footsteps crunching in light snow,
prints heading into hiding,
the sweet song of the robin in the stillness,
the way the pale sun
slants between tree trunks.