In some last inventory, I’ll have lost a season
through the occlusion
of summer by another hemisphere.
Going there
the winter tolls twice
across the year. The leaves of ice
in their manuscripts
are shelved on the air and each sifts
fine as paper-cuts along the wind. I will go
to crippled snow
moving through the crossings, in the headlights
of early nights.
How glorious summer is to them
who have caught just a glimpse of its billowing hem.
‘Fifty springs are little room,’ an authority
in loss warns, but actuarially
I can expect to own
ten summers, before the heights of blue close down.
Although I’ve gone
northwards, I shall cross the lawn
at home – the trees and yard in bloom –
in the mirror in an empty room.