Fall Poem



You are no different than asters that fall dead

in sleep, reemerge each year strong and new. By


midlife, you had fallen twice. First, watched

the pieces leveled one by one, left to ask what remains

when no one calls, when accolades fester into

gossip, when all our proud self-sacrifice, clever deeds


feed the march of maggots. The Perennial Story. Then,

having emerged, you saw it everywhere. How

what dies is nothing and divinity still seeks divinity. How

the brilliance of pigment, the ground-claiming rout


of foliage is mistaken for the life force invisible, strong

for the dying. “So,” you preached, “let it be.

Surrender to this new birth. You are not the maggot

feed. That is nothing. You are the endless life.”


Until it happened again. Piece by piece. This time love.

This time justice. This time sense. One by one. The ground

itself dead in a winter of grief and grasping, fierce

grasping to what was dear life. Then finally, it was


over, the pain and tearing. You thought it was over. It may

yet be. It is okay to stretch your petals and turn. These

are the clothes you wear a few decades, they may be beautiful.

There is the sun. It is okay to eat create laugh. But


can you see?  Have you learned the pattern? Again

you will die, you will rise, you will return. New.

More than once if you are blessed

and brave. The final dare is: Let it be.

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