has it really been a whole year
since i said that milkweed silk
blows through the empty chasm
of the wind's door?

love still binds me to the one
whose eyes are the color
of the dying leaves. chilly nights
thicken my heart and drive my dreams
below the frostline.

i have plodded at the speed of light
through another summer. and again
there are thistles and ribbons
caught in my hair, braided
and beaded with stars and stones.

do you frown when you sleep?
do your dreams filter sunlight
and try to hold back the winter?
where have i misplaced my heart?

what tangles in the bough
and snaps the loom?
what remembers
the dead and grows
steadily toward them?

nothing has really changed
since i asked you these things.
autumn is
still falling apples, walnuts,
red leaves, and frost,
and men taking
off their boots, their hearts breaking,
not knowing whether
to admire autumn's ascent
or lament summer's decline