Once …

Long drone; persistent, low

Reminds me that

Summer is heading south …

But the familiar beat

Runs on, insistent;

Little lady mysteries

Scattered like crow-charms

On new-broke ground.

We were once angels of the

Darkest, happiest thunders,

Now we stare through

Barley-glass panes at

November’s secret lights.

We have to learn to

Make fires of bones.