Clouds harrowed each day
as the weeks rained down,
all summer contained by cold
to this turn of the year
a
bonfire marks.
Ripe
leaves die hard
when
their gold is not yet dry.
I
light the slow fire
to
burst their green veins.
The
swans’ wide wing-beats
alert
me and I hear the splash
of
weight on water, your call gone.
My
sly cat purrs,
her
head a nudging wedge of need
beneath
my elbow,
a
rainbow on every hair
down
her used, barred back
where
the evening light has clung.
Shafts
of a burnt sun
awaken
the tones
of
the Afghan rug you loved,
swell
the haul of their warmth
as
they brighten, then season
the
full, mauled air.
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