The maple feels the wind begin to sigh,
which tears the gold from its own weary skin;
the light now fades, its vital force worn thin,
as sleeping woods in their first sorrow lie.
Yet this is not death's lethal accent meant,
but the deep pulse of a most sacred rite;
the sap retreats from the encroaching night
to find a quiet shelter, and consent.
So sorrow, which in living brings us pain,
must strip the soul of its vain foliage bare,
to ready it for morning's gentle air.
To die a little is to trust again
the branch where future life will find its care,
the promised bloom a better dawn will bear.
Feliz inicio de mes y de la temporada de otoño. Gracias 
Happy new month and fall season. Thank you
RE: Club de Poesía - 02 de septiembre de 2025