Autumn Whispers

The maple lets go without apology,

one leaf then another,

until the yard is a quiet letter

written in copper and rust.

Wind moves through the hedge

like someone humming a tune

they almost remember

from a kitchen long ago.

I stand at the window

and count what remains —

not the leaves, but the light

still willing to stay.

And when evening arrives

with its soft Canadian chill,

the poem of the day settles

into the porch boards and waits.