It was the fall when Robert Bryan died,
the fall that took him down.
Not the spring when every soul is rising from a sleep,
full of promise and fueled by winters dreams;
not spring when boy becomes a man and sets out to set things right,
but the fall when bears and briars move chi to the root, to the
belly, to the ground.
It was the fall that took Robert Bryan,
not the summer when brightest light will ripen fruit,
and seed inside.
Vitality and truth FULFILL the promise,
but the fall,
when valley oaks release their precious leaves without remorse,
like a million tears and not a single tear.
It was the fall that cost his life
and its the fall now we ask why,
not in the winter,
when redwoods, like our questions,
stand shrouded in mist,
When youth is gone and all is still
and young men dream of setting out to set things right.