Cold

It's coming. Even the white ribbon of seabirds who roost along lake's edge at sundown abandon their customary harbor. The wind's too ominous tonight, too sharp with sorrow. "Elsewhere," say the birds, as they take untimely exodus. Such melancholia here! not only for death of day, but for fall's fitful frenzy, give way to winter's sway. The only residual warmth from autumn's dazzling delirium is how the setting sun paints one side of the pine trees with bronze beatitude as they pump iron beside the nearly denuded fig. This cancer's seasonal, no terminus here: bald limbs summon their own beauty. "Don't die this year, " begs the fig tree as I mourn beneath its skeleton. "Come spring, I'll bring back the sweetness you crave, as even now my sleeping roots suckle sustenance you parented at my planting. O Earth mother, we embrace this bitter journey together.