CLOSING DOWN

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.