Hitching a ride, trusting a partner, marrying the same person three times
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Fall is the season of the poem!
The cold breeze of the mind
as it talks to the earth
in the language of fallen leaves —
Were I to have but one name for the changing trees
it would be “God.”
Were I to have but one bowl for my morning rice
it would be made of wood.
Were I to have but one path
through the woods to the place where I go to pray
it would be along the stream.
Were I to have but one robe to keep this body warm
it would be made of the finest wool!
No matter where we go to be alone,
beauty is living there too.
The way excellence stands guard
at the door of a poor man as if he were rich.
When I say to the woman I love, “I love you,”
all she hears is the voice of my pain.
It is when I reach for her hand that my heart speaks!
What is summer saying to this fall?
Is it some sweet goodbye?
Is it the list of names
winter is wearing in the hidden seams of its coat?
Or the lullabye of an ancient kiss?
It is this:
From the seed that once gave birth to the tree,
to the tree we will return and embrace.
Each year. As fallen leaves.
Thomas Rain Crowe