Such a Time

Such a Time

There's such a time
in the middle of November
when a day dies and we put on
our hats and scarves
and leave the hearth, the bowl of oranges
on the table, the old couch,
leave our piano begging, and go out
to bury her. Tonight we find nothing
except her skull, her feet and her hands.
Around us the dogs of winter howl and we,
coerced by cold rain,
gather the pieces together
and carry them, as though we are her body.
"Never seen it this bad." You
struggling up the bank, we
carrying this godless load.
There's such a time
at the end of seasons
when wind brays and days
trample and it's better to stay inside
with our chocolate ale,
where the damp wood hisses
and the candles
gutter their prophecy