September 11, 2001
They walk past you
weeping
for the leaves that burnt
& fell, the wood exposed
like bone, sculpture
that suddenly emerges
from white haze.
You old fortune-teller,
you could have told them
in their vibrant grief
whispering through the night wind
your breath held in your heart
like the trembling promise of tomorrow,
just before dawn
there was no pain
you are the wood
not the leaf,
falling is not
falling but
offering.