And just like that, another season’s over: clipped
smell of grass now overlaid with something else
that lengthens, spindles. The late crop on the tree
now harder, smaller— as if beginning the inward turn,
rehearsing for more callous weather. My nerve’s
more restless too: I startle easy from hard-sown sleep,
stumble from the screen of dreams, wanting either warmth
or a long drink of water. The numbers ticking at my wrist
show me my pulse, how many flights of stairs, how many
steps I’ve taken. But nothing I know will tell me
what in the marrow darkens, what it multiplies
then churns through cells of blood. I hoist myself
back into bed as daybreak rounds the corner, not always
seeing when dappled light begins to shade the blinds.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.