No Word for the Wise

We can tell the year’s close
by its harsh zeros and by a
drifting mood of scattered leaves
and withered stems warning us
the woods are empty. We expect
short days and long nights but
not this stumble in the pulse
as age races to match the season.
Let this news ride the wind,
there is no one we want to tell.
I split wood for the fireplace,
blanket the foundation with straw,
mulch the garden, stand at the
window with you in a house we built
with lumber from trees in our
own grove. But I cannot tell you
how to account for the roots’
advantage as they store the sap.
Wisdom never knocked on my door.
If I were wise I would know how
to dig a burrow and sleep there
with you until spring.