Here comes the child. He is growing downward,
into himself - and the sky is rising blue, the half
moon is risen, all things are looking up. And even
I am wrapped in petals now. There is a tolerance
for new noises in a world of silence - yet this
profusion of sound only tires. I want to rest.
The whippoorwill which counters the Winter
will be gone by the Fall. This late Autumn is
soon upon us : childrens' faces are at the gate.
Their Halloween garb is scaring only fate.
I shall wait on the porch for
the snows to come.