Lately the wind burns the last leaves and evening comes too late to be of use, lately I learned that the year has turned its face to winter and nothing I say or do can change anything. So I sleep late and waken long after the sun has risen in an empty house and walk the dusty halls or sit and listen to the wind creak in the eaves and struts of this old house. I say tomorrow will be different but I know it won't. I know the days are shortening and when the sun pools at my feet I can reach into that magic circle and not be burned. So I take the few things that matter, my book, my glasses, my father's ring, my brush, and put them aside in a brown sack and wait -- someone is coming for me. A voice I've never heard will speak my name or a face press to the window as mine once pressed when the world held me out. I had to see what it was it loved so much. Nothing had time to show me how a leaf spun itself from water or water cried itself to sleep for every human thirst. Now I must wait and be still and say nothing I don't know, nothing I haven't lived over and over, and that's everything.