The Sun sets at the end of the boulevard
The cicadas' song becomes uncertain
The sky has no depth, only width,
Like a canvas stretched taut
Over the frame of the horizon
The equipoise of Autumn
Is the pause
In the respiration
Of the seasons --
The playground swing
At its apex,
Waiting to tumble back
Into the
Before
Of dark days
Cold nights
Turning inward
Waiting
And yet,
The moment of turning
The tiniest caesura,
By the time we awaken to it,
Has already passed
And so we, too,
Fall
in the immodest hope that,
Like all else that lives
And breathes
We will rise again.
--Mr. Gobley
