With its many brooms
              the cold breeze is sweeping
red leaves from
                         the halls of sky. 

I have watched summer
             thrill the meadow with its brassy
sunshine, yes, but nothing can
                    persuade the trees and fields
to give up darkness now.  Geese
       remark: it’s late, goodbye.   

A shudder thrills the grass
      and shadows swing their billyclubs
                   across our front lawn. 
           Last night ice crept in with darkness
fierce enough to lock a person up
          forever.   But can you hear
that distant rumble?

          God, maybe, driving his
backhoe through our front
         yard, reviewing his blueprint
                       for resurrection, the whole
          elaborate reenactment.