Cross-Quarter Days

When I was ten,

sadness took my mother

like frost does the field.

After, fall came on

with no meaning at all. Closed door,

mornings pitched toward rust,

needled key left sitting

beside the lock,

withered garden bowled over

with leaves. Still, I carry it in

me: what tin-can lanterns

pricked with screwdrivers

used to prophecy onto the grass.

That earlier world

when winter bloomed

into nuthatches and we all

played with fire.