A silent wind blows up from the river stirring the leaves
that still cling to the limbs of trees on the Palisades, not a cold wind yet
not warm either, flavored with the scent of change I always feel this time of
year, the expectations of something I expect to occur, scared will come, even
when I am unprepared for it, this year the same as last, the same as all those
years that have passed, expecting the unexpected I know will turn me, the Way
the kiss of coming winter turns all these leaves brown with no promise I will
grow green again, I keep thinking of the whale I saw last year after the poet’s
dance on the sand. and of the trip I always take past the inn where my
imagination painted her stay long ago, here by the river her spirit is most
acute as if she will be here, always, even when she's gone
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