Means. The deepest part of the season is here,
Only for now, and then it’s gone—each transition
Shading into the next, demarked by such events,
By the moaning wind weaving in the eucalyptus
Or the coastal clouds that mock the inland heat,
Or the translucent moon that’s out by day.
I’m still in love, in such a long and constant
Way it seems to suspend time—and in spite
Of what I am, what change comes, what lines
On my face or on the page. The leaf seems to hold
In the air, in the wind: The sun illumes the side
I can’t see, but makes a leaf pattern there,
A leaf-shaped shadow on the grass, one in blood
Red when I close my eyes. Yes, it means. “Yes.”
It may fall, but now it’s here, and like the raven
Pivoting in the updraft, playing in the change,
I’ll set my sights on the moonrise by day.
