Transition

(with a line from D. Bonta) 

The cloud of beetles is gone, and most of the fruit 
that hasn't been flayed by their gorging is hard and green 
as if it were only the beginning of spring. What will you do 
with the time that, night by night, is unraveling? No one asks 
for promises. No one has locked you in or cast you out
of a nest.  It's true that not even the vagrant birds 
are interested to know your name, but you're never
as alone as you think. In the dark, you could stub 
your toe on a root or trip on the teeth of a rake.

This is the part when
a little moonlight can shine
on a path of stones.