A foggy, cold, November morning. Lincoln spoke,
following a 2-hour oratory with two minutes
because he knew “we can not dedicate —
we cannot consecrate — we cannot hallow” ground
covered, uncovered by grass and snow. Remembered.
Fine flakes so intricately small they disappear
against bright gray sky, roads and sidewalks.
In this forest, every surface takes some,
except for the creek, which accepts it
as brethren. I extend my bare hands.
And suddenly, summer green becomes autumn orange.
Termination dust, that Alaskan high altitude snow
signals summer’s end. But not here. Now.
No mountaintops. Just lawns and fallen leaves.
No blueberries for bear’s dessert before hibernation.