October

These ancient nights
Stack close
To the ends of all things
And pour into the earth
Still; again; with
Cold, sturdy edges
Honed against their own forms,

Alone as October

Trees
Returning
To their own, tried darknesses;
Sinking back
Into shadows
That they have brought alongside
Themselves.

And the wind, murmuring
Familiar rounds
Through another year's dusk
Of recalling leaves,

It's sigh
Curling over
Stirred coals

And the old, grasping whisper
Gathered
Against fence line
And threshold.

And late -
In the storied,
Waiting murk -

Winter

Come over the open
Fields of fallen corn
To nose up to the fire.

I remember well
Each and every return.