When the daychild runs out of laughter
and the riley wind rounds the corner
from summer and plunges headfirst down
the steeply graded hill to autumn -
Who, then, will giggle back the stormclouds
before their ire erupts and embrace
each tender wave of darkness washing in
the day's dismissal with two lungfuls of air
and a lullaby so sweet and final
that even the stars struggle to keep
from blinking out and drifting away
into another trillion year slumber?
When the daychild goes, trust your bones
have rattled so thoroughly with her glee
that you never have to remember
how to laugh, to grow older, to sleep.