Final Autumn

Maple leaves turn black in the courtyard.

Light drives lower and one bluejay crams

our cold memories out past the sun,

each time your traces come past the shadows

and visit under my looking-glass fingers

that lift and block out the sun.

Come—I’ll trace you one final autumn,

and you can trace your last homecoming

into the snow or the sun.

“Final Autumn” is reprinted from Calendars (Tupelo Press, 2003).