TUMBLES
The year tumbles fast now
towards its closing.
Dragon’s breath swathes the hill
In the middle of the morning,
and the grasses lie damp and lank all day.
The sun is distracted, its thoughts elsewhere.
The rivers race through the night with the rumbling stars.
Our moon flicks its light
from dim to sharp to dim.
Days of storm follow days of cold still calm.
Growth stutters and halts,
the trees reach for their golds and browns.
Plans compress or are abandoned.
What is not done, now can wait.
The fires are lit in dark mornings now.
The fires are all lit.
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