The Quietest Act

The Earth is going to sleep
her last vestiges of color
are collecting on the ground, 
and her sky is the texture
of the goose's under feathers
fluffed but heavy, 
waiting for the cold. 

This scene does not invite lingering
I am an unwelcome guest
shown up too late
and hurried out the door

Stubbornly, I refuse to move on so quickly
though the cold creeps into my bones
making me feel as brittle as an old lady
testing the firmness of an onion
with her ancient hands

I can't stay long
every gust of wind whispers go
and soon I will have to listen
but for now, I'll wait and watch
as the quietest act
of this eternal show unfolds