Approaching Equinox

There wasn't a winter this year-

seasons out of whack-
surely a portent-

but the birds come to the lake yet-

long necks bent, or wings spread,

one or two look contemplative,

perched in the distance:

what do birds think about, anyway?

Mold on my walls-

and other things-

other wonderful, weird things

that deserve investigation-

or fixing (says my father's voice

careful, pragmatic)-

I have no time to fix

anything

these fissures will remain

while I learn to take

the easiest routes

leap over, walk around,

walk along-

there's a darkness in you

she says, one evening-

not a presence, 

but an absence,

I think, but do not say-

and so it goes-

the sickle moon grows full once more

and winter shows up then-

briefly, a last hopeless stand

against a destiny

made for tilting toward the sun.