Upon the autumn equinox the ticking clock projects itself;
Another notch chopped into the year’s bed post,
Another season’s ghost consigned to wander hallways
Cloaked in duvets to avoid the coming cold.
We were grown up with hand me downs and feather filled
Quilts once the sun’s drummer boys had beaten all the
Heat from the beach, and volleyball playing girls
Moved indoors and covered up their tanned assets.
There’s nothing left for us to whistle with: the use of lips has
Been assigned to begging insulation rather than appraising
Skips down memory lane, whose hedges jut so much I can
Barely see my black and tan dog against evening privet.
Strolls won’t hold much hope soon, even for the hound, who
Hates the shade: his eyes becoming devoid of those ordinary
Lights employed to find life; mine creasing to see ahead for
Him and losing the fight, blinded by dark's overdraft.
The shell of the sky fell harder as the weight of space came
Crashing in, and an equivalent night lined up against the
Day, and approached its tipping point, and by the time the
Next solstice bottoms out everything will have changed.