Poetry

by Scribe Leaf Library · 1 min read · 0 views

I keep accounts of what the year has spent — one summer, traded for a shorter light, three friendships, paid in silence, not in rent, and one long argument I lost last night. The maple by the fence has balanced too: it gave up green for something loud and brief, a currency that only autumn knew, a wealth that spends itself as falling leaf. I used to think that loss was only debt, a column I would owe and never clear. But something in this ledger, unpaid yet, still reads as savings, if you read it here: the light got shorter, yes, and some things left — but look what gold the letting go has left.