Orchard in Autumn

The thieving wind has stolen all that summer Bequeathed to autumn: leaves that turned to fire Under the frost’s white whip; the sumac’s glimmer, The measured music of the crickets’ choir.

The empty boughs that knew a glory once, Like wrinkled hands of old and lonely men Reach toward the waning sun for sustenance; Overhead the southing sparrows speed like rain.

The weight of Time hangs heavy on the hour Where no wind stirs, and in the dark no light Kindles the memory save one gold pear, A ghostly lantern in the frosty night.