Requiem for a Season

I sit in a garden suspended in time

as a hooded oriole bids farewell,

his song in couplets that settle

like soft rain or night fog


on the shivering spikes of moor grass,

on the gingko’s yellowing leaves,

on the silver branches

of receding day.


His requiem falls on my shoulders,

the pages of my book, the folds

in my cotton dress. Even as I

lean over this poem


tired and alone, it lingers. And now

with a clove of moon and a train

whistling in the distance

it becomes my tears.





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