Sometimes, I speak in autumn language,
long before this September,
in words I say, when they blow away,
they’re something I try to remember.

Sometimes, I speak with powdered sugar
stifling my whispers so,
when they blow away, in words I say
they’re carried and lost under the snow.

Sometimes, I speak in trilling chorus
welcoming the green again,
in words I say, when they blow away,
they graze the sure amber of grain.

Sometimes, I speak with too much repose,
but really, there’s more beneath,
when they blow away, in words I say
to seasons played on ivory teeth.