Fall Patterns
Diane Funston

The only sound is of acorns falling
against the wooden shake roof,
ping, plop, dropping
to the deck
in nature’s disarray,
a true pattern for nature to follow.

The only view is sylvan-sweet.
Ancient oaks embrace big skies
ringed by mountains,
formed by unrest—
leaves settling in canyons
stirred by coyote and wind.

The only mood is tranquil.
Quail bob between boulders,
blue jays chase titmice
through golden fields
dappled with rabbit-brush and sage,
swirled by seasonal streams.

The only time is now.
Past memories filter through canopies
of leaves twisting to seasonal call.
The future remains shaded.
Poplars reach upward,
willows bend to the present space;
the only time is here.