08/07/2019

​an old pain wakes me
memory of November
the season that eats
its own dead.
a fingernail scribes
something in the sky:
" you are not long
for this world."
I know the red leaf
will fall. my grandmother
waits to lead me to
the lake bottom
where we will join
the deathless frogs.
when the ice comes
we will polish its
milky underside
so that we can
see the sun.