Here is what I think it was--
the edges of elm leaves were oval, like slow hours,
and they fell along the edge of the creek,
yellow as the lights in strangers' windows at early dusk.
Here is what hurt my heart--
a delay in moonlight, as the last crickets stumbled,
bewildered, into the crack in the dry wood
at the base of my step.
I have been hearing them even in the overcast afternoons--
they know that my favorite soft black boots will only last
for one more season,
and that by the time it gets here, you will be gone.
Here is what I think will happen--
there will be ice, a little further from the banks each day,
and both itself and the elm leaves caught in it
will have edges, like each breath I take from now on.
Here is what I think it means--
there is nothing I could have done,
because the moon is caught in a reflection at my feet,
but will ripple and blur with the first step I take.