The Days
are not such a good measure of the seasons
As the trees,
which have their reasons
in their change from green to gold

There's no seasonal enticement
in the lazy spin of hours
indifferent to flowers
and
unperturbed by rain

I think
leaking thru the legnthened days
when summer spreads her sultry ways
is the essence of the the solstice
that pope gregor never got

So Cold Autumn into winter 
we can watch the weather splinter
'neath the blows of an intemperate
and flannel-wearing God

He manifests himself 
in all who relish winter's wealth
And I have met the man
when he descended down to earth

My internal climate failing
he held me against an iron railing
and kissed me strong and cold
Beneath the Dying evening sky

And now I find that I
can think of nothing but his eyes
in that one frozen callous moment
when he wouldn't let me die