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.
Translations from the English 
I’m never quite ready for your brilliance, Jeff, but always grateful for it. ❤
Thank you, Ann. How is it up there in old New England?
It’s cold, Jeff, and I’m getting married on Friday!
Heck yeah!!!! Congrats!
Love the poem, Jeff. And the glimmer of hope in that last line.