Now is the season of rapid descent.
Yellow tugs at the weeping-birches.
The death of another friend pulls us close.
There is a gathering in this going:
leaf on leaf, mounding up, molding down.
Urgency clings like a silken lining against the air.
Years flit like the phantoms they are,
weaving through limp handshakes and nodding heads:
the parties, midnight singing, the madcap flirts.
On the back porch, the bottle goes round again
as the sun goes up. We will never be bolder than that.
Or more perfect.