I sit here, willing words to wend their way onto the page,

Shaking the fall-stripped branches of experience for one bright memory

To press between the pages of gilt-edged books,

But the “so much” that has happened dances away on tendrilled winds.

The “and yet so little” stills my fingers.

What is one more dead leaf in a forest of trees?

My mind’s sap runs slow in these chilly-ing days of fall,

I find much to do and little to say.