WALKING THE GRAVEYARD                     By Andrew Hidas I have taken to walking the graveyard, An oak-tree’d resting place Under whose towering limbs A treasure of autumn leaves and acorns fall. Strangely soothing, this gliding above the dead, Pausing to note a name, an age, doing the math, Adding or subtracting my own advancing years in A fruitless assessment of my place in line. Fall’s fierce abiding beauty comes at a price, Golden everywhere sans the dark abyss where it points, Each October a plaintive call…