The Secret of Fall

A little poem on the mystery of fall.

                    The Secret of Fall

What is that feeling I'm feeling again?

The ancient, primitive stir?

It's some sort of secret that eludes me.

I sense it in the lonely clap of distant aspen leaves,

in the musky smell of rotting logs and dank vegetation,

in the gusty wind.

I look for it in a deep, narrow crack of lichen-covered granite,

under damp moss,

in the tight curl of a rolled up oak leaf.

I feel an urgency to prepare for the worst,

though I do not know what it is.

The secret has something to do with death,

or is it something close to dying?

A benediction?

A relinquishing?

A resolution?

It is a mystery to me.

And I hope it remains so.