Light Limbed

You like being home
In the warm lamplight
So much you’ll give up

Late summer weather,
Thrill to an autumn
Grown unromantic,

Just to sit, well-wrapped,
The darkness outside
Gathering itself,

The fire in the grate
A season early.
As they get rarer,

Early falls, early
Winters, will become
Precious. Silly soul!

You’re already there!
This is your last fall
In all likelihood.

Early and precious,
Your nights by the stove
And under the lamp

With black in the trees,
And peace in your limbs,
And frost in the breeze.