I'm tired of filling pages about you.
So, too, the weather's mood awakens the reeds
where wood ducks still squat beyond
the house, an abstract reminder of all that
has gone stale in myself--
the way a waiter clears dirty plates
and continues smiling at the table.
You occur here so often, anonymously,
like a season tipping to a grove of trees--
That is what I mean; I'm not prepared
for what's going on outside. Take this evening.
There is November-- pacing the back porch,
kicking its boots, tired of complaining,
having to do its work, lifting the brass knocker.