Weed-scrabble, cropping for the hungry earth, this
wet morning, young robin clutching at old ivy, berrying
the fruits of autumn’s windfall. In the cemetery, apples.
I am out of season, untrued wheel, a sour note, and yet
there must be a thing within me that marks that discord,
an oboe with its open A, among skittering gut strings.
I am chided by sparrows, busy squirrels, the luffing sail
of an owl hunting in the dark. I am not finished praising.