Here comes the day again,
creeping out of the west woods,
creeping yellow across fallow fields,
devouring the shallow snow as it comes,
scaring off the night
that hides in the old farmhouse
as a chill in the cellar stones,
that hides in the mind of the sleepless
as a reckoning
with the failures of a life
marching mute
through the goldenrod bones.
