Sunlight dropping through fog
from just after dawn
paints each needle of the spruce sentinel
with a brush dipped in future
telling me (even more clearly
than the wall’s funeral home calendar)
that winter’s hoarfrost waits.
Not too long will this late September weekend
hold the roasted colors
and gentle hush of drying leaves.
I will soon look out this window
into a bony swath of naked but patient trees.
This shining fall mist will evanesce, fall anew
as the white time machine of another winter.
The asters’ seeds, soaking in death,
will wait silently for the peepers
and then send out green
that convinces me all is young again,
and new, clad in memories.