You have many names
Bear, Bearer, Breaker, Change, Painter, All-knowing, Omnipotent, Deserter and Deserted, Prophet, Eve, Old Woman
You, the foggy, brisk fall morning, the season of decay, have these names that we call you
To address you
When your long, wrinkly, windy, see-through claws reach for each leaf,
for the earth, for the life in the earth,
We speak to you, we cry out, and you only sigh behind your long, wise beard. You sigh, you breathe out completely and enwrap us in your breath cloud that lingers for so long. We are disoriented, the spirits. The smallest fairies are the ones who never sleep, who always know where to lead each other,
and then us,
because they filled their lungs, their wings, up with late, golden summer rays. Their legacy is immune to your taking,
So you come,
and you take,
as you will.
You choose, you settle, you stay. For as long as you can, before the snow covers you,
with its light, disguised, deadly freezing touch. Only those heavy loads of snow can crush you, just as you have crushed the leaves, taking advantage of their fragility,
the speed of the cycle of life.
The crisp, merciless gust of wind grabs all of us,
the spirits. We are too light, too unrecognized,
to fight you,
to escape. Your foreboding storm separates us from all matter; it precedes the stillness of winter, of white solitude. It enwraps us in your cocoon that makes us loose our life-bringing, promising, hopeful magic.
night and early morn,
the tips of your fingers on only your left hand—they are the tips of our right hand—are pushed back for another few hours by her, the inundating sunrise. The rolling hills, the baritones, are the only ones to speak, so they hum quietly. They never really sleep, they only slightly, lightly, close their lids. Gracefully, the crosses on their magnanimous peaks bow down to the Savior with his light.
And so we stay close,
we embrace one another. Even if we do not all know each other, we are one in this time of hard-ship.
Of paralyzing falling.