October 1

It’s dark before we’re ready.
The house hums its electric song to itself.
The breath of the song is power
But the song is not about power.

There’s a borderline to the month.
If you wake on the far side of it you cannot sleep
And lay in the dark, awake early but rested,

Aware of the wind listening to the trees
Say their prayers, like a foster parent
Not yet ready to talk about growing up.

And gradually the notes of the day
Arrange themselves across the earth
Like sheet music. And the trees dream.

When the month’s song is over
And the dead hands are done clapping
The house’s song will be louder.
I remember waking up on the other side
Of that border and I remember the words
I tried sounded like windows shutting.
The house encased in its song’s glow
Like an egg. One spring day we will not be reborn.
It’s dark before we’re ready.