And like that, overnight,
the end of full summer—

a tainted glass, rain,
that striking first chill.

Oh there is something
so sad and lovely

about these first days
of autumn:

A distance
carries more,

an absence
weighs, a heart

grows blonder, gold
as desire, as early

larches turning
to fire, as bold gestures

dreamed of in quiet
hours, the night

gone still. The night
that follows the day,

the beauty and terror
of the inevitable, prized

apples and aftermaths.
I know why love

is depicted as fruit,
it begets itself, grown

ripe around the seeds
or stone, anything

for a taste
of what remains, forever.