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I am a cold morning, calling
in squall and rustle and bright sunrise
and breathless gasp as I dive past the lip, and into the lung,
with clean and watery shock.

 

wake with me – into this very moment
of all that is real
though not really seen.

(so little can ever be seen)

 

The bee that stings, slows in me –
crisp wind from the north –
and I take last season

away.

 

The leaves that were letting go

release

and fly

without painful parting
or a pull at the stem.

 

They were barely holding on, anyway.

 

Can you feel the new season coming on?
Can you feel the shortening of days?

The earth is calling:

“go home. come in.”

 

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