from The Perfume of Leaving
Dawn’s breath pinks the sky,
a delicate yawn of gold and orange
as fog shifts the valley.
Yesterday’s rain wrinkled the lake,
clouds veiling the mountain,
sailboats, kayaks shored
as last leaves fall. Sun slants lower,
spring as far away as those we forget.
These sharp days pierce my skin,
memories of flaming maples
haunting the honeycombs.