September 17th, 2017

caillebotte_man at his window

Letting it Be

What shall I do with these remains? This scatter of dead leaves with which the brown lawn is astrew? This fading day? This season on the wane, like the moon that is yet to appear tonight? The ceaseless buzzing of the insects, so like the tatters of disintegrated words? The thoughts that flee and fly apart? The pale ghosts of intentions, now as dead as the fallen leaves? The days to come, growing fewer like those doomed leaves still clinging to the trees?

The sight of the leaves tonight's dark will swallow. The buzzing of the crickets will be softened by the growing chill, and then silenced by dawn. The disintegrated words, the fleeing thoughts, the ghostly intentions— these seem beyond hope. I will leave their fate to the diminishing days.

On one of those days I will pick up the rake and heap the fallen leaves, then bin them and send them away. More will come next year. Winter will kill the insects, but more will come next year. The seasons and the serial shapes of the moon, they always return, and need no assistance from me.

It is the things in my head I really don't know what to do with, or about. They are being taken as though by a wind that blows from some cosmic clock, while the leaves, the insects, the moon's phases, the days and nights, are tickings, fast or slow, but inevitable. So, too, will be the arcs of the rake when I heap those leaves. So, too, are my fingerfalls on the keyboard. Part of the mechanism, I count my own time's passage. But when I put aside the rake the leaves will continue to grow and fall. They will grow and fall uncounted ages. Maybe I'll join them.

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