A fumbling rush of a smile pours out of me:
it’s autumn atop our tired moraine.
Lagging, a poor creature with a salutary grin,
beams of sunshine breaking cold through smooth
November skies. Slanted wind blowing
voices; squirrels approaching over dying grass.
I watch the cars and pavement to the south,
gold leaves on grey sky, and pray
to be a fool, to have the weakness and frailty
needed to be poor and gentle, that I may
smile a true smile, meeting eyes
that pass me with awe.