[falling down]

the leaves fall steadily down, down,
slipping across our memory like a careless wish
as we lean into the wind and continue on,
despite the sadness,
listening for that particular echo of hope
we search for in everything.

hope may be a lover's face,
or the tenderness with which
we greet a long lost friend;
in everything, it is the shadow of longing-
all things once depended on
and now lost forever in the vacuum of time.

it is the paint we slop over everything,
trying to forget that we exist alone
amongst our fellows,
toiling against the solitude that death enforces.
where we succeed in acquiring,
the leaves swirl upward and we forget
our falling down.