two seers

goodbye. . . hello?   

Fall can be like the big meal after a funeral:
it celebrates a sadness the sweetness of the year gave us
but no longer gives us,
the cold demands an ending,
trees are starkly somber
after the colorful finery drops away,
the leathery brown rustle of the last oak leaves
have the hue and cry of mourning,

as I plant flower bulbs for Spring,
mad copters of poplar seed attack the ground
and soft yellow ginkgo leaves
whisper in their falling,
 and the artist with me marvels,

my mood walks a knife-edge
as two seers within read the signs differently:

the survivor in me joys
with every meal, every smile,
every morning that breaks open possibility,

the survivor in me sorrows
with every loss, every tear,
every sun that sets upon what can be,

how many “goodbyes” can a person hold
until there’s no room left for new “hellos”?

by Henry H. Walker
November 21, ’12