November Speechlessness
Robin Magowan
I wake from a chill and it’s settled,
A million fists have spoken.
The dark sings in its quality of rain.
An articulate drizzle occupies the lawn.
We take the ground for granted.
We embrace each other’s debris.
I pluck each last leaf
As if it were sky I’m wheeling away
Rather than the real adversary, zero,
Who needs no wind to issue blunt remarks.
What small district of the universe
Holds the sun?
