End of Summer

Gold and silk of exiled skies continue.


Voices become a wind of fountain grass and poppies,

Where dusk’s yellow score fills the larch with marcato of crows.


Out of this ending light,

Rosettes of cut-clouds float like coming blossoms of snow

over Ivory lines of ocean.


The gates of the village close in a passage of bells,

As the ancient chaconne of the cricket becomes still.


Your leaving

Completes a silence of ending worlds.


Stars rustle in faint Misereres over your grave all night –

Like remaining heat of stones after the summer has gone.