Autumn’s not colored foliage or apple picking.
For some, a harvesting or hunting Moon.
Acorns falling like a broken clock tick-tocking.
“Eulogy” in Greek means a “good word,”
quietly spoken for things and people gone.
The equinox happens to all of us
at the same moment around the Earth.
Some things we share, and no one
can change that – no government, no person –
can change the always counter-clockwise moving forward.
Photo of Denali by Tim Rains, National Park Service.
And suddenly, summer green becomes autumn orange.
Termination dust, that Alaskan high altitude snow
signals summer’s end. But not here. Now.
No mountaintops. Just lawns and fallen leaves.
No blueberries for bear’s dessert before hibernation.
We are in the cloudy middle stage
of this terrible ceremony. Fire and smoke.
Not there. Not here. At a threshold.
Hierarchies reversed, dissolved, continuity uncertain, future outcomes
once taken for granted into the pyre.
Asked to sketch a self-portrait in class,
I am only able to look down
and draw my legs and my shoes.
“Is this really how you see yourself?”
she asks. I look down once again.