“It will be cold where you are going.”
Yes.
Working today in this subtropical green
summer extravagance,
cutting back fleshy stems,
smelling steam-scented gardenias
I think of winter.

Last night a chained dog howled
in the heat of the full moon,
the old house rustled
like constantly turning pages.

But far off southward
a stony ridge lay waiting
for me to know it. I move
closer towards the pole.
Wind off the mountain snow,
small white-etched trees
leaning in leeward gestures.
I shall step carefully into the acid vapour
of morning frost. At night
I shall light fires.

Doesn’t summer
half know itself a cheat, conjuring
all this green foliage
to hide the rocks, the earth
then waits to take it back?
Beauté de diable
its enchanting flesh
already beginning to droop like an old breast
on ribs of bone.
I’m tired now, summers,
of cutting you back to size.
Where I’m going you will be more succinct;
just time for a hurried embroidery
of bud, leaf, flower, seed
before the snow-winds snip you
to a root’s endurance.

I may be more at home
observing your quick passages,
stacking up wood
against the length of winter.