December sans snow, a fortress of darkness
full of little twinkles of domestic yard trees
clusters of Arctic fireflies,
cautious ceremonial light,
but the holiday arrives only too soon: a chilly
black-lung storm from the southwest, sturdy
as a city built out of wind,
it rattles every last piece of loose metal,
makes every gate squeak, and roars all long night long
across metal rooftops like distant thunder.
An overripe autumn, a fifth season
traversed by no resolution;
only habit helps, torpor
and the ever reliable crankshaft,
the planet’s motion.