7 October 2009
There’s a perfect arc of moistened concrete
beneath the storm door today, another autumnal whisper,
“summer is gone,” I’d not heard until this morning.
From now until May, possibly June,
the air on the world-side of that door will be cooler
than the air on the home-side.
The latter will rarely be warm enough, and the former
will only shed its moisture down the door for so long
before North Wind weaves of the water
her crystalline lacework over the glass;
hides the frosted grass from view.