October makes a holy flurry,
bright as a dying saint.
Her shadows tuck away the summer
like sheets of paper spread
between cotton gowns.
Azure to azure,
dust, to dust, to grey and dust,
these Autumn days burn
like wicks in a bowl of oil.
Christ has died.
Christ has risen.
Christ will come again.
In the throttle of Botteri's Sparrow
like a dropped yellow feather coming to rest.
Pity, the wimper of the rose-throated Becard
makes her farewell, "To South! To South!"
while branches bow to earth, fold down and down,
humble as pilgrims met in prayer.
The daylight clings yet to high places,
as if this wide-turning ball of clay
might resist any interchange
granted to earth by heaven.