A poem for October, by Richard Eberhart

As if there were no suffering, 
No ancient heart-ache of the being, 
No tortures of the soul, 
No struggle with mortality, 
But changelessness, eternity. 

A leaf falls here and there, 
There are small birds a-chirp 
A chipmunk on a pine tree, 
No cloud in the sky, 
October afternoon, gold rarity. 

Through the transparent air 
Time is a kind of singing 
In the inner being, 
Acceptable singing 
Giving the illusion of eternity.