The Final Offering

The wind breaks the leaves from the branches and they fall at the start of autumn. September is nearing end and I squirm about finding the next stage of work this season. Bold eyes dart. We’re losing grip from not knowing the next step- thinking we’re ahead of it all when we’ve barely started. Competent sure but credit caught far. We’re losing grip, harness tight! We’ll make it, and the leaves fall bronze summer’s end- the setting passed. -Poem 37