In a new month of this declining year,
             the crest of morning is frosted with fog,

tipping toward north a degree more each day.
             Loosestrife, goldenrod, bend into the path,

the hobblebush muddies its palate, 
             gives up its green for autumn’s deep red.

Last year I didn’t know your name,
             didn’t see this distance as my future,

barely questioned the passing of warmth, or light.      
             Now—letters between us, confessions 

in dreams—I know how these late berries, rushing 
             to ripen, make mad fruits of their yearning,

and how the body holds tight to what it has learned,
             and hardest to what it might have lived without.