FALLING A fine grace of falling is in the leaves gone beyond hanging and more pulled to earth in their dry bat-lightness than in any fullness of green. To the roots, the worm-graced soil, they flush and scatter the year's holdings. The wind calls to the living, waking us before dawn. Cold inner lights spark our eyes. We hold nothing in our hands, we open to nothing inside: our fine gravity of loss, our center, our place of falling.