Thin, this light, like sifted flour falling
on a quiet patch of floor in this hour

before sparrows begin their plucking,
before wind shifts downhill to rattle autumn’s grass.

Light, like this sheet, cloaks my body, and folds
into the hollow you have left behind. This is my autumn,

and the sun brushing the horizon is my sun. I hear
the oak whispering to the eaves, promising rain.