The recitation of the stellar jays,
the criss-cross rasp, insistent screech
of a September orchestra, attendant memories
as grief shimmers a trifle more,
as all the past does in the liquid light
of autumn, a deeper gold,
shadows crisped. Garden browns
are ghostly, no current life or one asleep,
one buried for the cold, wet months.
This is my time to retreat, grateful
for encroaching darkness, the better to hide,
the better to cushion myself
from the din and mania, the expectations
of happiness. Time collapses
in a welcome way. The children
come home from school, jubilant.
It is a comfort to hear them.
I tuck such fleeting joys
in the crevices, to shore up
the moss-strewn stones, still
standing, as a makeshift wall.