An October-made Moon


An October-made moon hangs high
in the vaulted eaves
whispering windy secrets
through wet silence.

One of many souls
weathers the cold night asking,
paints sopping birds of sky
trembling on the windowsill.

There is a smudge on the calendar
where October used to be.

The sky lies heavy, wet
and still on the dead ground.
Its death here marked
by gravel only, damp and scattered.

Later, the morning sun sets fire to the frost.

The new crunch of leaves sings
of the dance and sway of
those shivering stars
brilliant in the trees
and falling, falling
like brass among the blue