Your Slow Deliberate Dilations

Oh, the range of glow and volume of you –

cold November afternoon! – forgive me for not

having sooner caught your daily comings-on and -in –

for not having been sufficiently attentive to your slow

deliberate dilations toward assuming a protracted role

in a Chekhovian-sly play: seductively ambiguous. If your

winds had limbs they’d be askew, each with its own soft

arresting hue – your portion of the fund of autumn’s

waning alchemy. From my vision’s balcony I see

an opalescent sun: its valiant fading glimmer stuns a little –

bits of white gold prick the eye – then mesmerizingly

diffuse into a dreamish pinkish-grayish-gauzy-brightness,

subtly wry and privately enlivening – still faintly fresh with

its begetting sun, not yet sucked into, under the penumbral

cold indifference of a winter still to come – I will leave

my unclear essence here, invest it in your evanescent

comprehending light so you might breathe it in before

I curl into another freezing night’s amnesia.

.