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.