The morning walk 
is a handful of autumn leaves
I want to hold it
keep it
grasp its beauty
to revisit and savor
the colors
the explosion of scarlet and flame
and the sun warming my face
but this is not the way
of things.
The drying weeds bow
to the beauty
of inevitability
of death
of absence and loss
that the autumn leaves sing
and the geese declare to one another
as they pass overhead.

Time is not a thief.
It is a teacher.
It allows what is present 
to happen
and then ache with longing.

This too
is love.