Monday ~ August 20, 2018

A flurry of leaves at the window
like those calendar pages flying
in old movies
to indicate time passing,
and it is passing,
though where it is going
nobody seems to know.
Something is always lost
and something found -
an earring or the key
to a certain door,
to some second self.
I watch as energy and matter
bow and switch places,
as last yeat's leaves appear
and disappear again.

(Linda Pastan, b. 1932)