Durga, 1

I am waiting for the last leaf
           to fall a turn of the twig the
sound of the frost cracking its 
           white knuckles. the leaf
will lie on its back a jot of blood
           on a drab field and the sun
taking notice will abruptly set. 
           I wait for this every year 
the way an astronomer waits
           for a star to die and reflexively
holds out his hands 
          as if to catch a falling child. 
who hasn't done the same
         when love fails? by November 
I will be three quarters full of 
          wing-broke birds and making room
for more. Durga, you did not tell me
         about this sort of waiting. you did not
warn me of all the things that will
         fall through my hands.

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