I barely remember seeing the night, Like an old, dry Autumn Not going away.
Help me turn this knob, Sliding back, To the waiting moon, Eating at sunset's table.
Let us turn this season, Facing the wind: Fading, Faltering, Disappeared.
Now come help us mend this place, Spilling our anxious tears as one, To gently warm this evening.
Sam A. Flanagan