Too late My hands reached out to touch the autumn warmth to hold the harvest air. Leaves red, orange-gold once rattled like caught papers in a fan. I will not let this winter pass. The clear voice of cold takes charge and lets earth rest: still waters in sealed ponds violets under the ground. I too find peace when freezing winds trim edges off my thoughts turn them within. I settle what has passed. And in the huddled night when streetlamps string small moons across the snow I try to stay awake to linger in the closeness and not plan for spring.