The leaves have begun to turn on the mountain.
Set free, they do a little shimmy in the wind.
All things hang in the balance,

the night as long as the day
as if the earth, itself, were suspended
on a giant gimbal. What was it

we believed—
if you caught a falling leaf,
it meant happiness. Somewhere,

in the attic, books
still press those leaves. It’s why
we dig the shallow graves each year,

spread the roots gently, like hair,
mound the earth over the crown
and place the marker that tells us,

here lies “Small Ways,” “Yellow Chimes,”
that we trust will rise
and flower in the spring,

when without even asking,
the daylight will be given back
minute by minute.