EQUINOX

As still as glass
the first cold of autumn forms.
Then moves, unconcerned as a spirit,
rising up the hollows like smoke
from a chimney rock of long ago.
The smell of it is of all things
natural and radiant, expected.
Its taste is of apples and pumpkins,
and secret honey found caught
in the elbows of ancient trees.
Soft, I catch the essence against
my breast and imagine that I am
allowed to disturb the air with my
breathing. I float, an apparition,
above the dark beaver pond,
where submerged in mire, the silver
scales of fish fall silent and soft
as tongues of prayer.
Nothing rests under the gold gleam
of the Harvest moon.
Nothing sleeps – except for all of us
who linger in the cold mist of autumn.
We sleep so that, narcissistic and exposed,
we can dream about ourselves.