And where am I going, I wonder, on this gray November
morning? The trees’ fires have gone out, although some embers
still shoot sparks: gold Ginkgos, red-orange maples, russet oaks. . . .
It’s time to take measure, this near to my birthday, figuring
that’s my last good decade waiting up ahead. Which means
I’ll be going before I’ve arrived, the days flitting by
like the yellow leaves’ glissando when the wind plays
its harp of trees. But just for today, goodness,
the glory, the seasons pinwheeling forward, even as I know
the music ends. One day soon, the snow comes down.