We Enter the Period of Long Darkness

In fall, a rain of pine needles, 
torn pieces from the maple's veil;
leathered quilt pieces under
the fig tree. How much
we miss the honey-thick
light in summer, extravagance
of fruit that even the animals
sample only to discard. The year
spiraling down to that place
where we say we could begin
again— though we know each
repetition lives inside itself,
foolish hoarder of any way-
ward grace that missed
the cutting blade.