To say I will miss its rays,
the once enveloping warmth
and reassurance over my shoulder
along every steep and sloping trail,
does not begin to approach the stunning
dissonance and bitterness this autumn holds—

the foliage on the stand of maples muted,
the withered apples shivering,
gathered, then forgotten
in the spoiled barrel—

the call of those coyotes
one range over, bewildered
by the impulse of the season—
their hackles already raised,
forecasting the drifts

It is futile for me even to try to
lumber into your distressed plaid,
the tightly woven fabric
of rich wool flannel
frayed and unraveling now,
heirloom threads bared beyond
stitching, worn ragged and worn
only by that brass hook,
hanging above your boots,
unlaced and dormant
near the cellar door.

You would not want your family
brooding, I know, but these
memories will beckon
us, bidden and unbidden
for the rest of all our lives—

the garrulous tractor
stalwart, gravely, diligently
reaping all that was planted
regardless of the sower,
laying in the hay low
against the split wood fence
the burden of that intimate, distant train
glinting along the evening rail,
crossing just across the valley,
an overcast signal from
the black lantern swaying,
its whistle imprisoned in
the heavy air like blues

and, above all this,
the mountain chill
diminished by brilliant
ritual when you,
long after sunset,
would be ringed
in eager radiance,
carrying and kindling,
your hands never idle,
your arms always full,
stoking a perpetual fire,
watching the flames
lucid and translucent,
burning clean away
that desolation—only
faint embers ascending
with a lightness,
an exultation,
of ash.