Late Autumn
The snow bites into another hour
and it is icy, unrelenting force
into our patchy green lawns,
our garden of bluebells and thyme,
paddling the holes on our street--
does late autumn know I have been watching
when her bite reflects a slew of careless whim?
and she tilts her head back to freeze the sun--
does she know that her coldness
breaks my polar eyes
into a hundred lenses of mist?
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