So near holidays. For now, celebrate

their nearness. Brush the cat hair off

of coats, collect the hackberry leaves.

Winter threatens is unfair; it menaces

like sleep, like hunger. Cheer a killing

frost but mourn the lettuce, the orchid

you snap, an accident, not meaning to

be an ender. Less time now for repairs,

only so much skin left on your hands.

Ants arrive in rivulets. Psylla are born,

borne on the backs of leaves; host them

once they’ve left their elder. Make space

for succulents on the sill, where the sun

comes like clergy to bless and pass. See

them not as muscles, but a musculature.

Wake and put the cold of tea to your lips.

Grow old. See love as something like this.