The horizon line lies higher than my eyes
so I seem to sink, a true illusion, made by

the eclipsed sun’s low-slung light,
moon in front pulling hard on a tide

so high water seems wider than sky,
and distance a surface, burnished bright.

Change begets endings and ends create 
change—this is the infinite eight

of meaning eating making—so Destroyer
and Creator dropping in the west, here, O

hear: The equinox has passed;
light slips and fades, days recede:

at last, at present I am as clairvoyant
as the shadow of a willow in November,

at liberty to darken, deepen, lengthen,
as unobliged as I am unfoliaged:

leaves will fall and gather, 
weak branches break and scatter; 

I’ll define the lines as they appear, 
allow the forever-dying now. I’m here

to weave endings in the winter wind,
weave them all into an ombre exit.