Another year gone, leaving everywhere
its rich spiced residues: vines, leaves,

the uneaten fruits crumbling damply
in the shadows…

I try to remember when time’s measure
painfully chafes, for instance when autumn

flares out at the last, boisterous and like us longing
to stay – how everything lives, shifting

from one bright vision to another, forever
in these momentary pastures.
~Mary Oliver from Fall Song

To let your body
love this world
that gave itself to your care
in all of its ripeness,
with ease,
and will take itself from you
in equal ripeness and ease,
is also harvest.
And however sharply
you are tested –
this sorrow, that great love –
it too will leave on that clean knife.
~Jane Hirshfield from “Ripeness” from “The October Palace”

What is left in the trees in November
is crumbling away:
bright while fading,
dimpling and softening,
composted in the rain.

Perhaps this describes me too.

More than just spicy residue dangling by a stem,
let me still feed whoever is hungry,
to thrive on what little I have left to offer.

Might I ripen a bit at harvest
before the inevitable drop,
to sleep enveloped by the ground.