On the lightning-struck pin oak,
On the swayed spine of the Blue Ridge,
                                                      a little gold leaf.

Once I drank with a vengeance.
Now I drink in surrender.
The thaw cannot keep me from wintering in.

I prepare for death when I should prepare
For tomorrow and the day after
                                          and the day after that.

A clinker of grief where once hung my heart.

Memory—moon-drawn, tidal.
The moon's celadon glaze dulls in the morning's cold kiln.