not in a flurry of fallen leaves
the colour of summer’s dying fire,
or in a blast of wind,
bowling water-swollen clouds
and dragging sheets of cold rain.
in the mellowing of the air,
the tawny sun that rises,
lingers never long enough
in a misty sky no longer vibrant blue.
Trees still shake green leaves in the breeze,
sun still dries the dew and pours,
into cupped flower faces.
But the evening moon is cold and bright,
and stars glitter in the frozen wastes of space,
we feel it in our hearts and gather the last rays,
like ripe fruit
to store the memory of careless days
as the earth tips slowly into the night,
and the year slips,
through our helpless fingers.