March 15, 2021 - At dusk in September /

At dusk in September, I tried drinking hot tea & weeping
with the autumn wind falling into our window. I wanted
to skip October, pass on the crimson leaves & cold drives
up the Taconic, with promises of progress & the two of us,
closer. On Sundays we’d drive south, back toward the city,
and in November we caught the skyline in the distance.
That night we looked for off-ramps from a highway, which
stretched along the horizon, & inched toward a void so wintry
that no April rain, or forlorn and floral spring could ever bloom.