October

I

October—

its plangency, its glow

as of words in

the poet’s mind,

as of God in

the saint’s.

II

I wept for your mother

in her pain, wept in

my joy when you were

born,

Maia,

that October morning.

We named you

for a star a star-like

poem sang.

I write this

for your birthday

and say I love you

and say October

like the phoenix sings you.

III

This chiming

and tolling

of lion

and phoenix

and chimera

colors.

This huntsman’s

horn, sounding

mort for

quarry fleeing

through mirrors

of burning

into deathless

dying.

IV

Rockweight

of surprising snow

crushed

the October trees,

broke

branches that

crashing set

the snow on fire.