If rain begins as snow, then the weather
Has slipped down as between walls, is not
To be trusted any more
Than any other magic.

Is an embayed window, this hint of spring,
Or a well-rounded outpour we collectively
Fall in love with?
Then I would ship the children off

Like the stone-coloured shirt I wear
By habit, with its sleeves closed
At the wrists, one of whose ambitions
It is to rustle,

Leaning back in the pillows à la belle étoile.
Autumn is a word that still draws pain,
Like a clown whose clothing
Got brighter and brighter,

Or a widow smiling knowingly
At her dress becoming light above,
And dark below, a cloud
Having second thoughts:

Though all claim to next year’s inflorescences,
For you are not a sleep of avoidance,
I secretly put out an apple on the pavement
To test you, growing colder and colder.