WING-BEA

In some last inventory, I'll have lost a season through the occlusion of summer by another hemisphere. Going there the winter tolls twice across the year. The leaves of ice in their manuscripts are shelved on the air and each sifts fine as paper-cuts along the wind. I will go to crippled snow moving through the crossings, in the headlights of early nights. How glorious summer is to them who have caught just a glimpse of its billowing hem. ‘Fifty springs are little room,' an authority in loss warns, but actuarially I can expect to own ten summers, before the heights of blue close down. Although I've gone northwards, I shall cross the lawn at home - the trees and yard in bloom - in the mirror in an empty room.