FALL

The wind is the rider on the hill
Breaking the cloud with his spear
Calling the blue of winter

As he called to summer.
Patched land, patched cloud, blue
Recovering. We remember how heat

Descended, a flight of geese,
Pressure above, then hiss
Of roused water, reclaimed

Wings folded on the reclaimed.
Now on the lake a skin of ice
And silence among the pebbles,

The cloud withdrawn to a gleam
At the back of the sky. We listen
To the wind working on its cliff

And a star listens, around it only
The pure blue of winter, as if the air
...