Calendar's Mischief

A day of shock,
sharp sense of loss
in the withered berry,
shrunken vine and grass
stiff with frost.
Now fireweed blooms,
pebbles gleam in creeks,
the trees astound me,
I have not worn such color
even in my thoughts.
The slant sun blazes
on a window, green bleeds
from the garden stems,
clouds peer from the horizon
as wind wraps the house
and moans down the chimney.
And I see, with limited view,
how a man on his threshold
feels betrayed by mischief
in his calendar.