Autumn comes
in quiet discourse
to spirits departing

What once glowed and soared
slows and holds
in the aggregation
of specks so distant
they can only be imagined
for the things they are

We below
remain with what we’ve wrought:
lies told,
lucky pennies spent,
peonies trimmed to mud
In the absence
of honeysuckle and thunderhead,
in the chill that precedes
the whisper of snow
and finality of ice,
the unspoken can be seen now
up high,
clear