Lately the wind burns br the last leaves and evening br comes too late to be br of use, lately I learned br that the year has turned br its face to winter br and nothing I say or do br can change anything. br So I sleep late and waken br long after the sun has risen br in an empty house and walk br the dusty halls or sit br and listen to the wind br creak in the eaves and struts br of this old house. I say br tomorrow will be different br but I know it won't. br I know the days are shortening br and when the sun pools br at my feet I can reach br into that magic circle br and not be burned. So br I take the few things br that matter, my book, br my glasses, my father's ring, br my brush, and put them aside br in a brown sack and wait -- br someone is coming for me. br A voice I've never heard br will speak my name br or a face press to the window br as mine once pressed br when the world held me out. br I had to see what it was br it loved so much. Nothing br had time to show me br how a leaf spun itself br from water or water cried br itself to sleep for br every human thirst. Now br I must wait and be still br and say nothing I don't know, br nothing I haven't lived br over and over, br and that's everything.