Summer poems are prolix, extending tendrils
of metaphor and alliterative allusion; opulently
they reach out to the reader,
to the supposed reader, to the deferential target –
to anyone, really – and, carelessly, indulgently,
to no one at all.
Late summer poems get down,
a bit, to business. They live
the ripeness of the hour, and speak
the word attuned to it.
And then we come to Fall –
And then a look again.
A shortening, then,
as the elegant
whiteness of the page
and behind it, the dark and perfect
eye of the mind,
gently draw in the ear, to be heard.
And then, for a gorgeous little while,
it is winter,