This is our last day together,
the day the birds fly south.
The groundhog burrows in
for winter. The sun shines less.
There is a relation between us
and the events we endure:
when there is motion
in the trees, a rustling not unlike
the removal of your dress, something moves
in me. And I know this distance
between us exists somewhere else.
In the season’s change, the swoon
of a leaf, the melodrama of a threatened
snow. Now I am here. You are moving
away from my warm bed. If the birds
are not sad, their singing seems so
to me; their flight, like the moment
of your leaving, disturbs the air
I breathe, seems inevitable and trite,
but now moves me some nonetheless.
Migration
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