Late

These late 

autumn days 

with their rolling 

gray canvas 

spattered with

earth and fire 

they go flying 

through our eyes

past tilted suns
burning themselves away.

My daughter and I 

spend hour after hour

in the park

cataloging each leaf

and making tiny 

worlds with them. 

Little constructions.

She is all energy

fighting to keep moving

right up until

the last moment 

before sleep 

stills her tiny body.

At night the rains

blow across the rooftops

as refugees walk

through forests

with their children.

On the way to work

in the thick darkness

news of our wars

tumbles out of the radio.

Cars race past 

with red coals glowing 

in their driver’s chests

a weakened cardinal 

all ember and wings 

is quietly breathing 

in mine.

Another winter 
walks just outside
the gates of the city.
Our time grows short.

And perhaps the world 
calls for something else

as hard as that may be.

.