Again, he was a youth.
—Ovid, Metamorphoses

Because the winds of change
are pruning the trees
and the last fruit has fallen
I build twig crutches for the birds
and grass wings for the worms,
out of dream scraps
I create a creature
who cannot die.

Then I take these old bones
and my crown of autumn leaves
to the orchard
where I greet Pomona
whose love
will bind me
to the vines of renewal.