Tallow Her Heart

Her heart is in autumn
kept as tallow in a jar
too stubborn to melt
in her state, too stubborn
to be here now

where summer never ends
and every leaf-worn wind
sends her back again
to all the reasons she hates
seasons where nothing ever falls
but her feelings—

unhappy with the weather
unwrapping her present
for another,

where sumac turns scarlet
and pumpkins light the porch,
where lovers get lost
in tall grass
and crows gather around
the straw man.

If those northern pastures
are what she's after,
those crows, like her,
are free,
and the next October wind,
when she falls
again, I can follow her there.

I can follow her where
tallow melts her heart,
till dusk bells ring us
home.

Or she can go
alone—
there is no lid
holding her in.

Autumn isn't the love
I'm missing—
it's the present
she's unwrapping.

If she'd rather be there
than here,
where am I?