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.
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