(Capitol Hill, November)

Behind this row of windows

squared against the snap of evening

air, light nests like coals. Repointed

chimneys plume their hellos. The night

grows soft with satisfaction

and collecting ash. Tracing

the embers’ crack and fall, I do not

feel dim roots contract; trees thickening

their bark, expecting ice.

When the white coat

of winter splits, what season

will emerge? Spare me the irony

of being sucked dry by thirst.

Let me be poised and patient,

plangent as a guitar. Let me

absorb this golden haze, while day

declines and leaves quilt up the ground

against the dawn.

Version first published in The Raven's Perch (Dec. 20, 2021)