Twelve bells. Middle of the middle of October’s night.
Leaves hanging on. They want you to remember
The shade they have provided, the sweet field
They made in the summer sky.
But everybody wants them to look like they will
When they have forgotten everything but dying.
Now in the dark, in the middle of the stirring
Season they can briefly mark
At once what we miss and anticipate:
The green whisper outside the window
That softened the dream of the world’s first cold wind
And when we rise to shut the window
Staring outward in that moment we
Have not yet realized has woken us,
The hard shadow in the moonlit sky already
Edged with the skitter and curl they’ll make
In November’s brown doldrums
Crossing the street with a weightless curse, never to come back.