Below,
the Earth-pelt
dapples and flows
with slow bees
that spin
the thick, deep jute
of gold time's going,
the pollen's
traceless retreat;
kingfishers
enter their kingdom,
their blue crowns on fire,
and feast on
the still-wealthy world.

A single, cold blossom
tumbles, fledged
from the sky's white branch
And the angels
look on,
observing what falls:
all of it falls.

Their hands hold
no blessings,
no word
for those who walk
in the tall black pines,
who do not
feel themselves falling-
the ones who believe
the loved companion
will hold them forever,
the ones who cross through
alone and ask for no sign.

-From November Angels by Jane Hirshfield