The First Freeze of October
It is the time of year
When the long summer
Has finally agreed
To wash herself
In the perfectly
Still
October tub
Of the first freezing morning.
Of course,
She never recovers
And asks me, why, why
Why was it necessary for you?
There is no robe
For her flawless, naked body.
No shroud to sweep
The beads of frost
From her shoulders.
She trembles in the unfamiliar cold
And stumbles,
Shaken,
Grabbing for cobwebs
In the forest
To break her fall.
She kneels
Upon a log,
On the garden floor
Of the Earth,
Short of breath,
Her hair like bound hay,
Her berry smile smeared
Like orange blood
Across her broken cheek,
Her golden ring
Of uncontrollable eternities,
Slipped
From her shrunken finger
And laid
Upon the back
Of a thrusting hare
That leaps away
To a red hole
In the slower, lifting horizon.
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