During all the bluster and the blue, while the geese and the squirrels distracted me, the leaves covered all the mirrors. They went around to each; to the pond, to the stream, to the smallest pool and puddle; and fell in honor of the light. They were the ones who were first to arrive, and they were the first to die. And they were the ones to gently ask that I go elsewhere for my reflection.
So I stand before the unfamiliar. The tangled hedge I know to be true is gone, the cornfield is blank, and there’s too much space between things. The woods are made of bones and breath; the birds have nowhere to hide.
But here at the edge of something new, I can see what I’d forgotten: that branches grow in scribbles and loops, that shadows start and end, and all the leaves that fell before, lead through woods and out.
Starting Close 