Perhaps it would be better if I don’t speak.
Reflect the silence back into the water,
listen to the evening come to help the night begin its dark trip behind the sun.
The winter apples turn.
Fall nudges summer gently to the side,
and the light burns amber, realigns itself
so shadows lengthen early.
The pages of this book that will not
be lain aside rustle toward its solitary end.
The dead revisit, though they are far away.
Anticipation turns to fear
that winter will not forgive.
Silence becomes prayer.
Breathe the honeyed quiet,
and brace yourself for the tilting
of the world.