My yellow kayak silently slices
the surface of the morning lake.
Autumn shoulders into the northwoods
smelling of rotting compost, wet leaves,
fallen needles from the white pine,
musty bonfire smoke.
Piers are pulled on shore,
cabins shut and shuttered,
shotguns crack, ducks fly off in fear.
Deer grow dark, flee through dark woods.
Birches along the shore
lean out over the water,
and I head south for the winter
with the hummingbirds and herons.
Some autumn
when maples blaze up
in red and gold,
their warmth lures me near,
their fire flicks at my flesh,
that will be the last I recall.
The lake will freeze,
the skeleton of the birch
will shiver on the silvered surface,
the house will be closed and curtained,
and I will rise and fall
in particles of ash
left from that fiery final autumn
drifting down through lake waters,
mixing with brown needles and leaves.
Some talk of moving on
to other places, other worlds,
but I'm tired.
Earth's bed, where ended life
settles down in layers, beckons.
I'll rest where my ashes fall.
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