The leaves are down. We have not seen the snow.
Time is a looped tape of light and dark.

Days of rain fade seamless into night:
grey dawn, sunless midday, blue dusk.

Sunset is marked only by the sudden blink
of streetlights, dawn by the electric buzz

of alarm clocks. I wake in the dark, adrift—
what time is it? Should I get up?

Time is a stone that turns but doesn’t roll.
Time is a run-on sentence with no punctuation.

I tear a page off the calendar,
poppies blooming in a field in France.

Shreds of scarlet paper fly from my hands
into dawn sky.