Fourty-five Degrees Farenheit

Is that a spent
Leaf falling
Or a goldfinch
Alighting to drink
At the basin
Where fog drips
From that sheltering
Tree above
On a cool
Autumn morning?

Observe my progress
Lacking airiness
And grace;
Instead I plunge
Into my autumn
Like a bull
Or charging elephant
Then look
At the path
Torn behind me.

I’d be grateful
For a tree
To shield me
From the torrents
Of change;
For any pool
To sate my thirst
For firm footing
And proximity
To my flock.

It’s getting cold.


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