Autumn always makes the woods feel empty
Though I know strictly speaking
This isn’t true
Bears prowl orchards
Chuff through oak groves
Stuff themselves before a slumber
That grows shorter every year
Deer, too, are bolder now and dumber
Haunting the edges of highways
Running to or from the rut
Even many insects remain
Hidden in soil or bark
Unnamed under leaves
Or within the spongy corpses
Of bug-killed trees
And yet still the woods seem empty
Something many things are missing
Now running water rings clearer
A cold mineral sound
While the squirrels get louder
In their rooting and hoarding
They rustle in the duff like monks
Turning pages in a library
I’ve heard squirrels lose
Most of their buried acorns
Just forget where they put them
Like me with the keys the phone
The summer
Where did it go
All that heat and light
Wasted
The difference between us is
Squirrels by forgetting seed the future
While I accomplish nothing
Lose entire seasons
Can’t remember year to year
That if the woods are empty
Autumn isn’t the problem
Very good. Especially poignant as I navigate this empty Autumn and Thanksgiving with my wife, bedriden by Alsheimer’s, infection and weakness. She was so full of life and Autumn turning to early winter excentuates the loss. The woods are now empty, and Autumn isn’t the problem, as I am reminded every morning on long walks with the little dog.