Late Autumn Tea

​It’s that time of the year
When winter is upon us
But not quite here.
When we do what we can
So we can keep doing what we can
This year and the next,
And a lifetime after that.
Leaves rust poetical
Swirl in the wind
Crack behind us
Cover our paths
Draw hearts upon the pavement.
Quinces and pears,
Yellows and grapes,
Have fallen into jars
That we cap and crate
And lay to rest in the cellar.
The trees that we planted,
The roses that we cut,
Shiver and hum.
Mist and fog, wind and cloud
Make comfort inside
When after a long walk
We unwrap our scarf
And fill the kettle.
The armchair greets us warm
In the room where a hidden fire burns
The moon window-watches
A plant in a pot
That thirsts for rays of gold
While the books on the shelves
Forget moths, forget dust.
When our book opens
At a page we’ve already read
We read it again
Like we never read it before.
In our hand we cradle
An upturned reflection
Warmth in a cup
Forest fruit, vanilla green
Is all that we need
To need nothing else.
Old autumn, new autumn
We rust in your colors.