Like the pile of books on my nightstand,
like the ever-falling leaves
in the yard,
my worries accumulate.

Within each there must be a vein
of leaf, or word, or paragraph, or
perfect autumnal hue that
would show me how to
shake off these worries
like a wet dog, or waterlogged branch
in a shudder of wind, or mote
of dust on a butterfly’s wing…

If only I had time to sort
through this wretched mess.