By Charles M. Sumid Copyright 2025 Written 2019

The maple’s edge holds yellow
like a held breath.

We have been watching
this slow turning
all our lives, it seems—
the way light changes
its mind about leaves,
the way we change
our minds about time.

A cardinal tests
the morning air,
then settles.
Even the birds know
when to stay still.

The body learns its seasons.

In the mirror, my father’s hands
manifest in mine.
The same careful way
of touching things
as if they might
break.

We have been watching
this slow turning—
how the earth tilts
away from warmth,
how we tilt away
from what we thought
we’d always be.

The cardinal lifts,
circles back.
Every departure
prepares
for return.

The body learns its seasons.

What if aging
is not diminishment
but deepening—
the way October light
cuts through leaves
with such precision
it seems to see
straight through
to the root?

We have been watching.
We have been watched.
The maple releases
one leaf at a time,
and each letting go
sounds like
yes.

The body learns its seasons,
and the seasons learn the body.