I write to her in autumn leaves.

“You left something in the alphabet. ”

 

I am busy at my roots.

I’m not my good, unclean self –

the sun’s desire,

by chance.

 

Shadow autumnal mysteries with me.

The leaves will make me.

At the sea level a polished ice.

Under it,

two polite humanoids that cannot pass,

Their painful courtesy increasing

against the cold crusted water.

 

I have the urge to cry.

I have for years.

 

The storm swirls deeply,

Blurring boundaries between

The dead and the sea.

 

The winter will sail

beyond borders and shore,

an elegant hole in the warm web of living.

 

For now,

nude humanoids,

Scratching at the well-kept surface

Of a national ice.