Saturday, October 27, 2012

The Meteorologist

In autumn the old gongs chime in the wind.
The rivers run the lowest and clearest
Since at least the last fall. Our daughter learns
The first real rules she must internalize,
And everything in this hemisphere breathes
In sharply, now and then, to own the cold

Even though the incoming moments show
Finer blues, more various greens and golds
Than any we've seen anywhere all year.
Sequoia, clinging to her creaky swing,
Watches a fawn follow after a doe
And explains, "Winter is coming, and snow."

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