Something nameless on the wind;
the chill scent of an eager autumn
breaking through an August too weary
of hotter days to complain.

Time folds
as I scan the space
left by the sinking sun;
I press and stretch a glassy sheet
and touch a stillness
like the forgotten smell of home
after weeks outside under rocky skies.

I rest
in gentle contentment:
I know you not, and yet
I know you are.
And in the shifting hush
of patient night
I tend the embers of remembering.