The fall belongs to you, who stirred when leaves
beamed orange and flashed against a concrete sky.
You drove me past your house, with its square of grass,
its plaster-cased Madonna. You pointed out
the water tower, the makeshift crosses there,
and named each broken kid who tried to fly.
I knew you couldn’t stay, so I drew the shades
and turned the clocks an hour back to buy
more time with you: it’s true, the fall belongs
to you, but winter’s darkest days are mine.