The last night of the fall of my fifty-fifth year

The last night of the fall of my fifty-fifth year

Winter comes in
Tomorrow, late,

Hardly anyone will stay
Awake for it. TV in

Front of an empty couch.
Fatherless months

Asserting order like a rake
Across dirt. It’s a season

I’m finally ready for.
Though every brilliant flick

Of survival by the wren on
The empty feeder mocks

My readiness. And in the
Quick corner of its eye

For the briefest wingbeat
Spring is looking at me.

5 thoughts on “The last night of the fall of my fifty-fifth year

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