Somehow the days
Shrink around the edges, leaving only
Barest bones encased within the burnished cellophane
Of poplar corpses.
Somehow the nights
Engorge with crispy northern winds,
Inhaling the heading whisperings
Of hibernating dawns.
And somewhere grassy fingers crack in shadows
Of November, mourning August and September, as petal tears
Slip and sigh, sigh and die.
Somewhere, the geese
Surrender to the harvest moon, honeyed honks
Dripping from the corners of their retreat
They say, Follow us
To the end of ends.
No one dares. Familiar defenses are entrenched, while
Somewhere, frost flexes its reach within
The deepening fog.