As autumn slowly fades into winter’s relentless grasp, I find myself wandering back through the pages of my mind, watching piles of leaves I raked this morning skitter across the lawn in a gusting late-afternoon wind. The world has turned the color of pumpkins raining from the sky. My mood is festive yet somber; the harvest celebration approaches, but there are not enough fingers and toes on my body to count all the faces missing in this picture. On a quiet hill overlooking my village, I come upon a stand of oaks and wonder why I never climbed them. I pick up an acorn the squirrels left behind, carry it back to the house, and place it on the mantle next to my father’s ashes.
a canopy of clouds
muffles the wolf’s howl
. . . midnight moon
