on cold, brilliant mornings
By Holly Holt

on cold, brilliant mornings,
when the world is waking,
your words blanket me,
born with a soul of Sundays
too wise beyond my years;

something of autumn
rests in your eyes—
as if you’ve seen forever
by teetering on the edge
where many fear falling;

you are old and beautiful,
a remnant of afternoons
spent on front porches,
dallying into a yawning dusk,
exhaling astral diamonds;

and for this, for everything,
our hounds run free together
on cold, brilliant mornings
when the world is waking—
yes, everything will be fine.