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.