What style of descending season is this, that finds
good and evil in equinoctial equal measure
bestowing such stings -- suffusing the blood
with the stygian weight of seeds ingested in sorrow --

and yet, the tilt of a head, the turn of a wheel
and the autumn's transformed into a glittering
harvest of promises, honey and hay
heavy and golden, their patient perfumes
lining the cloak of the lengthening night.