Change in season

On the cusp, burgeoning sliver:

The moon hangs its metaphor

impolitely out of reach.

Tomorrow it may turn, narrow, blink,

Leave an empty socket for the world to mourn.

So soon will things go to ground.

The fat of the world, sloughed in ambered piles

Ringing the trunks of giants.

Soon, there will be nothing left between their bones

but space for shaping dreams.

In those long months,

Remember the immodest explosion of life:

Dependable, creeping; then, all at once, a cry,

Out from the mouth of frost.

The dead rejoiced.

But be warned. The memory will pierce you.

Its blood will run out, warm, and cover you.

You will ache for it, and from somewhere, a soothing voice will say

It will come again, as if the bulbs themselves had made an oath.