The Falling

The summer is falling

from my grasp. The autumn winds

are speaking in my mother tongue, the language

of my birth; they sing in gale and

drizzle and abscission.

My heart thuds, ever dependable,

too reliable old faithful. The seasons are mourning

the loss of one of their own even at the birth

of another. I can hear it in the way

the trees protest, limbs wrought like iron

and strewn, discarded ribbons on roadsides;

I feel it in the strength of the windsong,

how it moves the doors of my house

even as they’re pushed shut, the way it

threatens to shatter the windowglass

with one note.

The tides are turning. The season is changing.

The moon has already marked her change in favour, the nights

are stealing colour from the daylight to give to the leaves as they fall

to mark the coming of the darkness.

Thus begins the autumn, the falling.

May we brace, take that deep breath that comes

before the starter fires his gun,

and face tomorrow with open arms

and defiant mouths.