Writer Between Worlds

it’s fall. 
inexorable 
falling.
  the sun, now,     nothing much
    but a hazy blotch of heat     looking up from the water:
sprawled, splayed,     just light pouring,
  floating atop the river,     blended with the chill.
   eddies of light	   quiet and deep
 crude glitter amid     the discovery that
 foliage, quivering     foliage can’t last;
   and time itself,     being stripped,
dried up, denuded,    curls up, rewinds,
    the droning of    critters muffled,
       past passions    numb, liquefied,
the sun   soon
       softly   keeling, 
turning
ashes to ashes and
birch to birch.