Invisible Guests

Autumn Nights

No man knows the hour of his Death.

And yet on certain autumn nights —

say in late October, a misting

rain outside — you sense a subtle

twinge of blood, the way a cork

will bob above an unseen bait,

or peach-fork jerk the water witch’s

level hand, announcing Here I am; place

thy shovel here and dig —

the twinge become a well, the well

a farm, the farm a ruin you recognize

at times when driving past.

Tonight, rain-beaded leave

release their practiced grip

on trees gown wearty once again

of photosynthesis.

In retrograde you celebrate

this semblance of unbirth,

toward the day you’ll bed down

in the comprehending earth.