The trees are mostly bare,

but there is excess in these late-autumn days;

of food,

of memory,

of longing.

Time, in its fullness, spills backward and forward,

and with it thoughts of all

we have ever loved or hoped to love.

Gathered into one,

it is a feast of too much.

In this is heartache:

that we are such small

and troubled containers

for what is offered.

In this is gladness:

that we would parse one flavor from the many,

one warm gesture, one word,

again and again.

Assured that even the left overs can feed a multitude.


22 November 2017