I know that I am retreating from what I was –
the swirl of these days confuses me –
names don’t adhere where I want to place them –
even my very own on me doesn’t quite stick–
it’s as if I had lost the polestar of vanity in my mind
and so saw things both more plainly and bleakly –
I am only a leaf among other leaves
and the machinery that let sun animate me
is worn out beyond hope of repair –
that gold bird, the sun, is heading south
and autumn plays its ancient script out,
a thing of beauty mixed with glory to make
an elegy while I cling to my branch –
yes, this is confusing, that I am next to nothing,
that I do not know when the wind will come
to harvest me, only that it will come –
there is wisdom, I suppose, in my confusion,
in my learning to let go, to let come, to be done