Never so grateful as under sapphire skies
What with apple trucks and golden sunsets

If the gods can cleanse themselves in field fires
Why can’t I

Even though builders drive in their year-nails
There’s a lingering to the changes

A reluctance in the leaves to fall
And in the birds who depart

In the conservation of angular momentum
A slowness to the glowing hours

Almost like a space passes into autumn
Into which we turn a vacant look