I stirred; and rousing you, I whispered, See,
The grass, once grey with morning light,
Has cooled and shaken itself awake.
Its dreams of morning dew, which came at night,
Have perfected themselves into the very clear
And visible memory of that wish.
I cannot tell the time, not from this silent scene.
The mist has yet to settle; it still sinks
Through the remaining lamplight, just fading out;
Barely noticeable in motion, through barren trees
Where the leaves once fell.
They are all around us: look. We didn’t see,
It may have happened while we were asleep,
Just like the dreams of morning dew: we roused,
And unbeknownst, the leaves had drifted into their
Soft and easy bed, about the leafy graves.
None of this – not beads of light on grass, nor
The sunken gold of the mist in lamplight before
The morning rested, silver; nor morning itself
In its unmade bed of sleepy leaves – not one miracle
In all of this, did we wake to see.
I can only imagine it happened silently.
And so we wake to it; and waking so,
To each fresh, silvered change in the silvered world,
I am glad we slept so deep, and still so soundly,
To wake to it. Our waking, to our autumn.
As ever, and always: for Blair.