The Death of the Self

--Linda Pastan

Like discarded pages

from the book

of autumn, the leaves

come trembling down

in red and umber,

each a poem

or story,

an unread letter.

Think of the fires

in ancient Alexandria,

the voluminous smoke

of parchment burning.

Open your arms

to the dying colors,

to the fragile

beauties

of November.

Deep in the heart

of buried acorns,

nothing is lost.