The First Freeze of October

It is the time of year When the long summer Has finally agreed To wash herself In the perfectly Still October tub Of the first freezing morning. Of course, She never recovers And asks me, why, why Why was it necessary for you? There is no robe For her flawless, naked body. No shroud to sweep The beads of frost From her shoulders. She trembles in the unfamiliar cold And stumbles, Shaken, Grabbing for cobwebs In the forest To break her fall. She kneels Upon a log, On the garden floor Of the Earth, Short of breath, Her hair like bound hay, Her berry smile smeared Like orange blood Across her broken cheek, Her golden ring Of uncontrollable eternities, Slipped From her shrunken finger And laid Upon the back Of a thrusting hare That leaps away To a red hole In the slower, lifting horizon.