It is late.
Beneath this moon
hangs an autumn chill.
The scorching heart eases with its touch.
In this space of cold clarity,
eyes close and ears hear.
From some long dead summer field
a familiar voice reveals
words that are echoed thoughts
beneath thoughts.
They speak
of a season changed.
They speak
of a sun veiled.
They speak
of fallen leaves.
They speak
of precious loss.
They speak
of gifts they offer.
They speak
of auburn woods and maple leaves.
They speak.
They speak
the word open.
Grief is a hot breeze swiftly
passing through a window
open to an autumn morning.