after Annie Finch
On the sixth day, late, I remember
to flip the month. The calendar
reads November, but outside August fills
the air with heat and moisture, short sleeves.
The oak knows of autumn, and grieves
her green as death falls to the windowsill.
Leaves follow me into my house,
rest for moments in my hair.
In Mississippi even the magnolia shrugs, evergreen,
yet weary of the load of heritage,
the weights that distort her pristine edges.
She sighs, lets drop her progeny. A reprieve.
In three days the Georgia air will chill her
breath. The oak will weep in earnest for November.