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Autumn and its thousand adjectives have come
to this, a swither in the trees,
their limbs bronchial and backlit in the gloam.
The groundhog drowses toward his long sleep.
And I am occupied with the dead, whose night
this is, to whom every night belongs.
The earth hoards them in a miserly embrace,
and we sit by our fires or blinking lamps and try
to recall the husk of a voice, the fallow scent
of grandfathers. Tonight they search the earth,
it is said, wandering as strangers to houses
they no longer recognize. Supper waits
on the table, with immaculate patience.