As the last geese head South,
a mob of crows shift through glinting foil and debris.
The last seeds swirl across hard soil.
The water line—high and restless.
And just as the world tips to cold
I find you—
warm.
Like coming home,
though home was
never like this.
There is still lavender scent,
faint behind the last mown clippings
rotting underneath reddened maple leaves.
Death and growing, leaving and staying;
this season complete.
I say yes.
