Bones, joints, every small part feels green turn to gold.
Muscles, skin, blood, inside liquid knows about change,
the shivering mechanism of you.
Preparation for the cold under-land, the phlegm,
the last rose of this year, fading pink of penstemon.
Each one of us in a northern hemisphere gathers in
a bit of fire from the copper beeches leaves, the
last stand outside the window. All they need is another
hurricane, gale, row between sisters, something
other than steadiness and we will see those barren
gardens and hills once more in December, a year
where nonsense and suffering have built a wall
between hearts and figs, tiny feet and hands.