October, and again the gold is pouring into my room. Thin slices of it slip between the window and the sill. Ignoring the ups and downs of furniture, a strip runs clean across the floor and mounts the wall. Wide slabs of gold lie trapezoid. To stand in one is summer and its warmth, but fall is in the blue-black shadows, and the hand of winter reaches from the corner. Gold like this is insubstantial to my touch but glitters in my dreams, and I can hold some memories of its glow. Memories. Not much to ward off winter's gloom, those memories, but
enough: a slice of gold, a slab, clean cut.