Autumnal Downshift

      

Reassured this death means only change,

(Only change -- some consolation.)

I see it on the outside: trees cyclically sloughing,

unfazed by the 90 degree heat, triggered

by the predictable: diminishing light.

I am not acquainted with my constant, what tides

cue my waxing and waning.  (They mock me.)

I do not bleach gracefully each winter,

nor shed without the panic of balding.

I am neither so wise nor innocent

that this upheaval washes over me

seasonally without renitence.

 

Able to forecast only death,

confined therefore, and unable

to partake in Indian Summer,

a gale blown misfit in a season

intent on dying.

Andrine de la Rocha

posted 11/3/2010