When a row of columnar trees
has begun to hum in shades of rust,
and a stray leaf chases you

down. When rain’s chatter gives
way to snow’s silence,
and the whispers you hear

beneath the branches
no longer need to be
ID’d. When you resist

letting nature
take its course,
and the young buck paces

a little too close
without fear in the same spot
for days before disappearing.

We take and take
past the emptying into exposed
views. Circumstances have erased

your face,

and into this strange
climate, when you can finally slip
through the keyhole.