Yes

(C) 2009

As the last geese V South,
a mob of crows shift through glinting foil and debris
as though only the crafty can make this place home.
This season’s final seeds swirl across fist-tight soil.
The water line— high and restless.

And just as the world permanently tips to cold
I find someone warm.

I would say you are like coming home,
but home was never like this.
There is still lavender scent, though harvested,
faint behind the last mown lawn clippings
rotting and covered with reddened maple leaves.

Death and living, leaving and staying;
this season feels complete, whole, as if
all of it mattered. And I am saying Yes.