I wonder what you are thinking
over there, awash in yellow lamplight
while leaves hurry down the street
like restless orange and tattered refugees.
You are so preoccupied, and I
am so alone with this poem.
Outside, rain washes away memories
of things we’ve lost for good—
species, icebergs, last summer’s madcap waves,
the clouds that yesterday scudded overhead
while we sat wrapped in thought
as in a comforter, with our
bowl of oranges, cold feet, magazines
explaining to us in plain English
why the bees are departing, why
the bats have packed their bags.
Tonight, my mind’s in the mouth
of winter, icy with bleak thoughts
about when we too must flee,
the sky buzzing, all lamps unlit,
our thoughts caught in the branches
of the sycamore, the temperate serviceberry
for anyone to read, like poems
filled with small birds, white blossoms.