The white pyramid beacons our way across the river's path
where at some end of some cold vein, we will shuck corn
and let apples cool in the eddy. Walking is not the same
when it is required. Patience grabs at every branch.
When the summer ended, I saw all the years twirled up
in a pumpkin roll - all the minutes in a fist like a burr.
Coming to the end of another warm tongue and lipping
our way to the mouth of a new cold breath is worth it.
I don't remember the tracks in the snow, or the hawk
falling from the plum sun, just the echo if its wings
carving sense into a senseless sky and the the fir points
dipping upward into the cup of endless grey.
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