The earth is acrid with smoke. Cracked bronze leaves
Rattle into the wind. Clouds, scattered past
The creaking oaks, begin to lapse into scarves
Of russet on skeletal figures. Goodbye. The last
Utterance. Take my hand one time. So.
Nothing in my life has made me ready for cold
Like this-a blast from the chasm. Look there-a crow
Is flapping down dusk. Gone now. Flown into gold.
Nothing we say can matter anymore.
Nothing we do can alter what we've done.
These words that fall are nothing. What are they for
When bird, leaf, bonfire, cloud are gone?
Ourselves. They are the seal that was made to hold.
loved you. But nothing is safe from the cold.