Harvest Moon
Your bones say yes
before your mouth does
& so October unwinds
days into darkness.
Owls call across brown grass
& moonface to hasten the fallow
& what follows scurries across
the plains of your November
until fields scrubbed clean, raw, bleed
in the cold & terrible light of day.
Your hands, your eyes, your feet in this soil:
so much beauty the world cannot endure.