My lawn is deep in brittle maple leaves
huddled against the house, each curving spine
outlined with frost. My neighbor’s holly tree,
old keeper of cardinals, old tower of green,
is standing watch, grandfatherly, in this
season of giving thanks and going home.
Come close: we need each other more, the less
directly we’re regarded by the sun,
and the long night is on us now. Come
close as you can, my friend, and let us share
the stories we were saving for this time,
and take the measure of another year.
Come close, and let us watch the morning in:
the hour of turning to the light again.