Too soon the clouds of disenchanted rains will be upon us
filled with reddish-orange Maple leaves
in the harvest moon-lit skies.
In that silence breathes the darkness extending into languished sigh.
There is nothing about flowers.
There is nothing in the graying wrinkled clouds
of those brown corn stalks of light.
Too soon too, the steps will turn ashen white.
If there is anything behind these closed drapes of days,
it is the knowledge things will come and go without me.
The world does not require much from me.
If I was to die tomorrow or the next, there would be no difference.
In the silence afterwards, there are flocks heading away.
In the silence after that, these are the breathless winds.
In the moments of stillness after that, there is the resting hand
upon what it means to be human, to say what is not easy to say,
to consider the long-standing stirring within us.
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