The ash outside our window
is ready to lose its leaves.
I hear its willingness
in the aroma of apples
becoming sauce,
in the whisper of water
as it backs away from shore,
in the melting into dark
as mauve leaves the sky.
The evidence was always there.
Aren’t we asked to see beauty
as our gardens die back,
as winter narrows the palette
to grays and browns?
And what of those times
when hard holding doesn’t work?
Think of a wounded bird
in your palm, or an egg.



Ellen Goldsmith