This is the season when birds
gather their kin. A knot,
departing, a sensor and divining rod
of warmth, marshes, a South.
The trees seem to miss the birds,
as does the wind,
it once blew softly
to support a feather and wings, or
to grab quickly to an ashen nest.
The loss is not unlike my friend; he is
a loss, has a loss. It is, of course,
the fault of departure… his tears
at a leaving, more than a leaving, it
is a breach, a break, a pause;
the tree’s branches splitting and dropping
and falling back among themselves.
It is this moment that touches a truth…
the white rays on a pausing, quivering,
sundial. That machine, that sundial
which is a measure of a day, is also
a measure of a season. It sees the space,
an emptiness with friends, an
echo’s refrain to solitude.
The shadows cease in cold,
and the time is, seemingly, permanent.