Autumn

That soft twist, that knot
where your knee proclaims its ending
never entering the beginning
of that curve of shin and ankle.
Always I fear this terrain
of twisted flesh, evidence of some
lacking, some loss,
caught in my gut like a tight pale pear.
But I am amazed
at how you arrive again and again,
amputee of summer, with a slight wobble,
the light crooked and dispersing
with a limp against sky these days.
How you offer a tight smile each evening
into this clenched stump of sky,
the lump of absence heavy
upon you, wanting
to have someone, something,
just to be anything but alone.

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