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.