Now, there is gold on the ground,
the curled, foiled beauty of shapes
no hand can make, the veined
artistry of fallen leaves in the perfection
of release from trees. There’s a grace
in knowing how to let go, a two-step
act of letting go and going to
and in-between the air, some call
the winds of destiny. A word not too
strong for falling. A word as true
as it has ever been. And the gold
that turns to decay to feed again
the trees and the leaves and the
falling. I take note of what I see.
-Byron Hoot
