Seasons know their time
and yet like a desperate heart
already under water, this one
reaches back to grab hold
of the sinking line.
Still, losses must be tallied
however silent the grieving,
the wild leaves of August
scattered to the ground.
And this face too, a stranger
in the mirror, reaches back to
rescue what was felt and known;
light that was seen in all its
green disguises. Praise be
the days ahead, that they don’t
arrive too soon. And praise be
the blindfold of Indian Summers,
endless nights of stars and moons.

(first published in Badlands)