Softly comes slowly
to the middle years
of this winter,
the wind brews
a cold cup of resin,
while clouds are
an edge of memory
as the moon crouches
A day of dipping tree
first winter is due tonight
I would call the hour “still autumn”
and so we spend still autumn
rearranging the fire into fire
knowing the snow will come
all at once every car the same model
every tree turning to see
The way the sky makes crayons in the evening.
The way stars simply don’t mind a thing.
It’s the way the frost was Dylan just two weeks ago.
And Saturn spins at the burger joint in town.
I’ve heard cars fly in rain here.
You hear things. Ya wonder.
You repaint the bedroom like a Vegas Versailles.
You dream big. Then smaller…until that fire opal
And your sky becomes paper plate and rock candy
hanging from strings.
In some way.
tree to tree.
heavy with rustle.
black the trunk.
If we leave the moon to its hammock
when the wind swings to and fro,
by god, we’ll lull ourselves an evening,
for cold weather is curious work
of hanging all the apples
Against all skies, all
within the singing heat,
melancholy’s cologne –
the dark sweet air
The humidity drowns out flowers,
the gem birds, the jewel songs – gone,
steamed vegetables – still growing,
Perhaps August has forgotten how
we suffer – breathing in the hot rain,
our garments sticking to their battles,
Then there’s a B&B in New Hampshire
that measures the temperature in
steaming cheddar biscuits eaten in A/C,
And at night, there is a down comforter
for each guest, and the hot water bill
goes through the roof every summer.
Perhaps August doesn’t know it’s winter
at Barthe & Bramble B&B, maybe we
just might stay ’til the leaves,
‘Til the first frost, when it’s safe
to come out, maybe we move in, maybe
we make ’em all three dog nights – this
summer’s end, this bubbling peach