It comes out of arson, bearing aprons of berries.

It comes in stealth, not by night, but by

Prolonged days that resemble the final

White cinders. By a river without warning

It comes in pith, with wings at the shoulder

Blades at the breath. To turn water into anything

But ice is a miracle. As if I could simply tell you

A moment to come it could come down to

A couch with your name on the underneaths

Of each cushion, written gingerly or with angst,

Between an old friend and newer cities,

From a haste that does not hesitate to come

On to the first banshee that waves a white flag.