Turn in, turn in, the leaves dance and sway
like terminal lovers beguiled by decay.
In ochre and amber the autumnal edge
with coloured collapse keeps its annual pledge.
The now lonely branches, stripped down, unadorned,
hail heaven with bare limbs, green garments yet mourned.
Their stilled presence marks time to rest and repair,
to lean into winter’s quiet swathe and prepare
our cloistered hands, hushed minds and poor yielding hearts,
in silence of wholeness to be set apart.