Poem

The immense sadness

of approaching winter

hangs in the air

this cloudy September.

Today a muddy road

filled with leaves, tomorrow

the stiffening earth and

a footprint

glazed with ice.

The sun breaking through

still warm, but the road

deep in shadow;

your hand in mine is cold.

Our berries picked,

the mushrooms gathered,

each of us hides

in his heart a small piece

of this summer,

as mice store their roots

in a place

known only to them.

We believe in the life to come,

when the stark tree

stands in silence above

the blackened leaf;

but now at a bend in the road

to stop and listen:

strange song

of a southbound bird

overflows

in the quiet dusk

from the top

of that tree.