bedding down

I cover next spring’s bulbs

with a rustling blanket of this month’s fallen,

thick with October rain

and the last grass clippings.

*

The garden looks like

a recently filled grave,

quiet tumult and sleeping soil

*

holding the promise

of rebirth like secrets.

A whistle comes down

through the houses,

a preview of the swirl and howl

that will bury us

in the eventual quiet.

*

For now, the land clings

to its last shred of waking

like a child fighting sleep,

like it fears the long rest

and what might come

or not.

*

For now, the wind

still sounds like a warning.