Summer goes abandoned.

The October-strewn ditchbank

runnels beside my path,

sparing my footfalls any echoes.

Nothing glows but late asters and goldenrods.

 

The only words I’d speak

would be unwise counsel to no one,

certainly not the cardinal or hawk

who refuse all autumnal vectors south.

 

I am borne along in a light rain 

that emerges like a rumor

wrapped in a whisper.

 

Like the woman’s voice

I let fade this morning

asking me to leave,

the widening light

splintering her doorway.