All of us try to keep up,
though mostly we creep.
We are locked in
to our pasts.
We are books
written by authors
whose names we have forgotten,
living as in a dream
until something pushes us
over the edge
and we wake up,
feel the heaviness of autumn,
the chill at the sky’s corners.
Already, we notice.
So soon this year, we think,
the leaves turning,
the squirrels beginning to nibble
at the green persimmons,
and finding them bitter,
throw them down.
Still, some birds sing.
The finches have fledged,
moved on,
so tiny and trim,
so focused on being alive.
© Judy Bebelaar
published in Walking Across the Pacific
