The wind walks in gently at first
coaxing leaves to fall at their own will.
Like a lover pacing for the climax,
it drowns the trees in kissing thirst.
And soon, the still November attains
the sacred nudity of the trees—
after invoking the saints as if not fallen,
and the fallen as if not saints.
My eyes worship and the soul heeds
some bright as summer’s drink
and others caramelised to honey.
The trees offer nuts as prayer beads.
On this vibrant road of letting go,
where flowers bloom when cut
and the saints rustle to greet you,
I thank them for the lesson of grow.