If winter is the time of death,
Fall is the dying,
The giving of the ghost,
The passage of the leaves,
The transfer of greenery to yellow,
Red, and orange.
The last of the apples hang on
Branches losing their clothes;
The smell of vinegar fills my nostrils
While I dump my load in crates
As weathered as the trees.
Every season makes me an older man;
Every transfer of power takes its toil.
One day I might grow into the ground,
My limbs sinking like roots,
My arms reaching upward
For the waning rays of the sun.
It is something to be tied to a place;
It is a process becoming a haunt.
It is a walking of trails,
a stepping of steps,
a pattern of motion,
A marking of time and place preserved.
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