Cold air falls, slips
down the earth, the Coriolis,
butts against warm;
each breath a sigh.
Leaves fly, orange embers, sparks
from the bonfire of the Fall.
We have an extra hour to dream about our opposition.
On the fulcrum of the year
I come like cold air from the north,
slip into you and turn and roil,
our passions soaring on the thermals
of our singular obsessions,
our pride, our points of view, directions.
Two plains converge, collide, cowed
by the substancelessness of our union,
as inchoate and intemporal,
as amorphous and impenetrably beautiful
as a cloud.