Year

I wouldn’t be who I am
if I could bear the foliage,
the hour losing
its precious light
like a knight bleeding out
through a hole in the armor.
I wouldn’t be, if I could,
any more than that—
light on burnt leaves
while the hurt worked
its anchor, the chain eased
slowly like a tongue,
a word for grief that
doesn’t rhyme with thief.
Any day now, autumn.
Winter any day.
I’ve shot my arrow
and lived by its arc
and still, the hours
won’t acquit.
The first time we met
we said goodbye,
then we never stopped
saying it.