Amber Threading

The autumn sun threads gold through the trees, each leaf a small window burning itself open, and I remember that beauty demands surrender.

The water below reflects not what is, but what the light decides to show us— a trembling bronze that asks nothing of stillness.

We call it fading, this slow turn of color, but what if it's gathering? What if the trees hoard their brightness before the long sleep,

burning through all they'll never need again, leaving us standing in the wreckage of their glory, our hands still warm from holding the light.