where the writers are
Equinox

 

 

EQUINOX 

 

Rain is not enough

to stop the year 

 

from turning into

loss and re-entrenchment, 

 

yet the sound drums

memories down 

 

like leaves

that curled once, 

 

loving, and were gone

to join the many torn pages 

 

of that book

we like to think of 

 

as a life with

fingers, linden-shaped 

 

disintegration that the jays

would recognize 

 

and steal from again,

noisily pecking 

 

the best of this and that

to make a nest—

 

some such I do

for you, make small 

 

homes for words

and gestures, simple songs, 

 

a way of holding

my head up into wind 

 

a flight too

knowing to be planned.