Cold Front
At sunset, virga turns orange,
a fire infolding itself, its downwardness
sucked in, turned skyward and dense
in the cold atmosphere. Gold fire
on the wet fields, fire on the hemisphere.
The maple upturns porous leaves, barometric.
At the river, reeds rattle together, daylilies
yielding their petals to night.
Clearance lights necklace the hilltop in rubies.
In the thickening air, little firefly, light.
Lightning will shutter past midnight, and you
as in discourse, unshutter your small, candent
body, greening my eye-green.
Tomorrow morning morning's minstrel
will raise its brazen jackdaw cry,
bullfrogs shrieking at the river,
cattails bumping a clapboard symphony.
Leviathan With a Hook: Poems
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