October and the Rushes

The grass, blind to the season, crawls at me through
the glass, the tiny thin glass, strange convention,
the window, fragile portal held in by strips of wood
as old as Germany.

Wind batters, and this is important,
because wind and Winter have sense of time,
summer is for lovers, and breezes have no memory.

The death of summer is no true death.
Only Winter coughs and nags like the slow pains that
come with the reckless accumulation of the years.

Mercury sings high in the spheres, though its earthly
namesake shrinks to a red dot on the stoop.

Winter speaks, winter reminds, the careful midwife of a million cares;

This is the last year that I will wipe the slate clean.
This is the last time the cold will not bite so.
Next year, next year, sweet infant,
You will wear the clothes of the old.

Dread my coming.


--October 29, 2005.