The ache of autumn
of what will be and used to be
when nodding bearded fields
when bright-crowned clouds in escalade
foretell winter as it was and
summer as it used to be
when you ran shining from the surf
phosphorescent as the sea
laughing with the gulls
in turning tide
the regularity
as woods go bare again
how many more
how many more
until the last
becomes the first
that slips from me?
