The brief secrets are still here，

    and the light has come back.

    The word remember touches my hand，

    But I shake it off and watch the turkey buzzards bank and wheel

    Against the occluded sky.

    All of the little names sink down，

    weighted with what is invisible，

    But no one will utter them，

    no one will smooth their rumpled hair.

    There isn't much time， in any case.

    There isn't much left to talk about

    as the year deflates.

    There isn't a lot to add.

    Road-worn， December-colored，

    they cluster like unattractive angels

    Wherever a thing appears，

    Crisp and unspoken， unspeakable

    in their mute and glittering garb.

    All afternoon the clouds have been sliding toward us

    out of the Blue Ridge.

    All afternoon the leaves have scuttled

    Across the sidewalk and driveway，

    clicking their clattery claws.

    And now the evening is over us，

    Small slices of silence

    running under a dark rain，

    Wrapped in a larger.