So begins another Autumn,
Its rubicund bearings
Loudly reflected in the car window,
Its bracing winds surging onto the porch
And in through the door screen, how
I have barely slept in anticipation,
Wondering what kind of death the trees
Will have this year:
Be it slow and deep with romance,
Be it a violent undoing,
Quick as the burning of books.
I think often of our histories,
But now they seem to be budding
From their graves and floating upwards
Into the rooms where we gather
In candlelight and wait for night
To still our hands.
I am frightened by reverie
So real it seems to loop
Across the television screen:
What I abandoned in the copper hills
Of Maryland, in my childhood bedroom,
Or in your parent’s house,
A summer that never grew back
Like it was, the wilting
And the separation, easier
Depending on the hour.
What proceeds loss?
All I can see is a thick, snowy static
Fizzing in the dark.
And beyond it, perhaps
The home we are building
From the few things carried
With us, what we failed
To leave behind.
The early sunset sends
A shiver over the valley,
All of us are changing.
Let me keep just this
Delicate, singular moment.
Let me cradle it, before it goes.