Like the pith of an oak
that is unseen in a steadfast way
against the rushes of a nighttime wind
we have alone and with one another
in laughter, in conversation
our own pith despite time
returning to ourselves again and again.
It is inevitable
this fall of the season
the rite of descending from my bike
the startled midair flight
then gazing into my neighbor's face
her concerned smile
from a yellow Beetle
and us crossing paths
lamenting over the brevity of a season.