I feel it still
That cold, beckoning wind
In the shutters of the leaves and
The spiral ice of puddles

The yellowing leaves
Ochre metal pots to Autumn
Shallowly answer me
Reluctant forms of wishes.

My hopes defy corners
Spring upped from mountain earth
Bristles of naked grass
Iron grey like the wreaths of the North

What I longed to feel attached to
The winds buried
And broke into a million pieces
To call my name in the morning glitter