When the grey jay calls, its hoarse cacophony, it has swallowed too much of the day into its mouth.
Greedy for the sun, it chokes on fading light.
I held golden in a bowl. It emptied in winter. I watched its chalice shape from a picture window.
I waited for it to fill up.
It filled with longing. It seemed it was a long one. If you know a short winter, call me.
It filled in summer. There was no spring. It seemed a goddess had vomited on us.
So suddenly. I made a bed under the lilac; the rockets stretched–hesperis matronalis–intoxicants.
It was like lying in a dream of a new world; I spread a canopy
to encompass and surround me; the maples were pushing out.
I could hear them near me.
All summer I cast diversions on a theme.
A goldfinch crashed into a wall of glass, then revived in my hands:
who shook more I thought as it flew, and are you too leaving?
The bowl was emptying. I took autumn as a state of mind. Sell everything.
Park a few treasures and just go. Clean out as the leaves cleave space wide open
and tell me what is it that you own.