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.