Autumn’s first frost recalls the eon-ache of an endless June,the ceremony hidden in the teacup of the letter u, warmingthe hand that holds it, & lowercase n reminding usthe ceremony ends, teacup rinsed, washed, left to dryupside down on a dishtowel, un- the quiet prefix in the air,unsettling the wary dog who cocks her ear at a footstep,unable to fall asleep beside her who sleeps in the rocking chair.Outside the first flowers that bloom had bloomed—the crocus comes to mind, but the plans are for other flowersmore resplendent in the eye, a bird-of-paradise, a bird-of-paradise. . . & it’s so often the case, then as now, that a shadowdarting across the sidewalk or the neighbor’s grass is whatcompels you to look up, an instinct not a choice, mouth agapewith some word about to be said, but it stays unsaid, unsaid,as the rock doves winging circles round the bell towerfly suddenly away into other hours, hours no longer ours,& the cardinal in the crabapple sings out its bright notes, countingas a child counts her fingers, one to ten & back again, almost forever.