Well now,
Ciderfest has come and passed, and we finished the Harvest not three days ago.
I have heard the Canadian geese honking overhead,
and studied symbols of the coming cold in everything:
the tall mullen stalks aging brown and thin,
the yellow grass rattling in the wind at dusk,
the maples and aspen turning golden and deep red.

My hands are dryer than they've been in months,
(And I've been reading about the drought in East Africa, the worst one this decade)
Oh, forgotten lands!
But I will not forget you!

We have heard the Buddha saying, truthfully,
that to live is to suffer.
And maybe we can receive this even as we mourn the drought.

Maybe grief will grow on us like the changing of the leaves,
subtly at first, before we notice its overwhelming color.
For as long as we trade careful and authored farewells,
as long as I long for your hewn words,
I will watch the trees,
kayak glassy lakes,
miss you pensively.