I celebrate the drawing-in of days,
a dowsing of the sunlight,
early camouflage of going home, or
of not going home,
a shrill scent again of clementine
and a festal moon behind the wavering hatch
of bare, connecting highways.
I celebrate this, feeling vaguely tipsy
after a careful glass,
after one simple glass
of chill, white wine in candid crystal,
neither so remarkable for whiteness,
yet the two
sending out reflections to intensify
a temporary wonder.