In September you walk your garden, seeing
that not all crops have produced, not all
plants have survived, some trees never
even bloomed. You look up in the shattering
leaves falling from the autumn’s oaks,
knowing not all stairs lead to to the next
floor, not all doors open on new rooms.
The days and nights revolve but we, our
expectations are structures crumbling
in surprised light, unrepenting dreams
suddenly old on a sunny afternoon.
– w. marling