Stiff hands that hesitate to bend.
A contemplation frozen solid.
Yet the wind is possessed with leaves.
The ghosts of red
and yellow
and orange
and brown.
I gather these ghosts in a worn paper bag.
Hang them in my window
by translucent strings.
My room: the arboretum.
Things become tempting again:
Long deep cave-bear naps,
weighted blankets of wool and feathers,
midnight baking of yeasted bread.
I am resting in the cradle of another season.