When you are already here



you appear to be only



a name that tells of you



whether you are present or not







and for now it seems as though



you are still summer



still the high familiar



endless summer



yet with a glint



of bronze in the chill mornings



and the late yellow petals



of the mullein fluttering



on the stalks that lean



over their broken



shadows across the cracked ground







but they all know



that you have come



the seed heads of the sage



the whispering birds



with nowhere to hide you



to keep you for later







you



who fly with them







you who are neither



before nor after



you who arrive



with blue plums



that have fallen through the night







perfect in the dew





