First Snow

Like discarded pages
from the book
of autumn, the leaves
come trembling down

in red and umber,
each a poem
or story,
an unread letter.

Think of the fires
in ancient Alexandria,
the voluminous smoke
of parchment burning.

Open your arms
to the dying colors,
to the fragile
beauties

of November.
Deep in the heart
of buried acorns,
nothing is lost.


The Death of the Self, by Linda Pastan