This is a good November poem. Now I’m going to think of the library at Alexandria when I crunch through the leaves.
The Death of the Self
by Linda Pastan
Like discarded pages
from the book
of autumn, the leaves
come trembling down
in red and umber,
each a poem
or story,
an unread letter.
Think of the fires
in ancient Alexandria,
the voluminous smoke
of parchment burning.
Open your arms
to the dying colors,
to the fragile
beauties
of November.
Deep in the heart
of buried acorns,
nothing is lost.