Change

Perhaps it would be better if I don’t speak.

Reflect the silence back into the water,

listen to the evening come in to help

the night begin its dark trip behind the

white hot sun.

The winter apples turn.

Fall nudges summer gently to the side.

The pages of this book that will not

be lain aside rustle toward its solitary end.

Anticipation turns to fear

that winter will not be forgiving.

Silence becomes prayer.

Breathe the honeyed quiet,

rise again, begin anew.