Time's Laggard

The house of summer closed its doors.
But like one fey or blind
I dreamed that I was still inside;
I kept it so in mind.

Now I am mocked by time’s own truth;
A wild grapevine, far-flung,
Drops frosted fruit; at my campfire
The smoke sticks out its tongue.

The wind pelts me with colored leaves,
While in an oak a crow
Prophesies that an Arctic clock
Is striking the hour of snow.