Up with the moon. It hangs somewhere behind the clouds, beyond the rain. The next season is already here; the wet one, the cold. It can be felt arriving in the silence of the early morning.
I look for autumn, though it is missing. That is its way. It always feels almost.
This will be the boy's second winter. He now recognizes the leaves that fall from the trees. The colors he knows, the reds, the yellows. Two months ago I was pointing up at them, like a fool, then showing them to him, fallen to the ground. So much has changed.
so much depends
a red wheel
glazed with rain
beside the white