For the girl, autumn is dying anew.
She waits for winter, bating her breaths.
Bundles herself against heartaches and chills.
Her armor: sweaters, sturdy boots, prayers.
She and I are mittens with a permanent link
by elastic ribbons. No more frostbite, separation.
She is tired. She lets her bright hair
turn pale white. Yes, she says,
but only when I ask, I feel lonely.
For the girl, autumn is ice like a knife.