Over the Sill of November
Scrapes and breaks in the veneer
form no scabs, no scars.
Open for all time, the patina of familiar use
settles over broken places,
The scratches and mars on the empty seat tell tales,
some truer than others.
Over the sill of November
the dust of all things
dances, then finds rest.
In dents and scars
the thrum of being, below all hearing,
tunes every dirge, every fanfare, every howl and hum.
Voices of pale cornstalks crack and rasp.
Murmurs of July adolescence
harden into aches and bone snaps.
Soon the gold hoard is given up
under a fog of bee's-wing dust.
Gravity boxes fatten and fill.
The holy bone ash of us is on the air.
The milk and tears of Eve
anoint the feet of the dead.
The blood of the Earth feeds nestlings.
soon they fledge,
soon.