Hourglass

The curve of the pond . . . is it needled already with ice

does milk fern frost windows frame the river turned a rind of gray metal

did the grape clusters shatter this year, under shelter of silver- palmed leaves

the bulbs— are they saved

have the wings of white birds already blossomed, the sounds strophic and deeper than waves,

overhead blue distanced once more from migration

didn’t you just call to me is it weeks since you left

is the light gone cold filling the moon?