Some leaves feel like bed sheets, some like
Crinkled pinwheels; all are serious
And wonderful until they touch the ground.
Suddenly it is time to unpack flannel
And crawl under the covers an hour earlier.
The community of warm weather has gone out to sea
And in its place,  cold vagrant echoes
Happen to fall at you, giving to you
The illusion of feeling a little bit taller
So that even the paper clips and stapler
On the desk look animate in a world of their own.

We have repented in getting here,
Carrying water up the hillocks to make-believe
Nuns who whisper thanks and ask for more.
They might be feeding the sick or tending to
The parish garden, but we can never remember
Their faces or bodies kneeling in the moment
Of special need.

Tomorrow you may feel one step closer
To childhood, closer to the farm or toy
You adored and then forgot about, though
‘grew out of” is the usual explanation.
Why not go to sleep near a splash of spring
And dream of wandering sovereigns and unknown things.