The trees are undressing, and fling in many places—
On the gray road, the roof, the window-sill—
Their radiant robes and ribbons and yellow laces;
A leaf each second so is flung at will,
Here, there, another and another, still and still.
A spider’s web has caught one while downcoming,
That stays there dangling when the rest pass on;
Like a suspended criminal hangs he, mumming
In golden garb, while one yet green, high yon,
Trembles, as fearing such a fate for himself anon.
~Thomas Hardy “Last Week in October”
We too are flung into the unknown,
trembling tethered in the breezes,
unready to let go of what sustains us,
fated to be tossed wherever the wind blows us.
If caught up by a silken thread,
left to dangle, suspended by faith,
we await the hope of rescue,
alone and together,
another and another, still and still.