In the deep fall
don’t you imagine the leaves think
how comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
freshets of wind?
And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being
crowned with the first
tuffets of snow?
And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.
—From "Song for Autumn," by Mary Oliver.
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