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The birds
have flown their summer skies to the south,
And the
flower-money is drying in the banks of bent grass
Which the
bumble bee has abandoned. We wait for a winter lion,
Body of
ice-crystals and sombrero of dead leaves.
A month ago, from the salt engines of the sea,
A machinery of early storms rolled toward the holiday
houses
Where summer still dozed in the pool-side chairs,
sipping
An aging whiskey of distances and departures.
Now the long freight of autumn goes smoking out of the
land.
My possibles are all packed up, but still I do not
leave.
I am happy enough here, where Dakota drifts wild in
the universe,
Where the prairie is starting to shake in the surf of
the winter dark.
