Jean Marais died in France (a day passes)

I looked up
and all the leaves had turned
& eight months passed
since cancer & you cut out from me

Cranes cry & flee so elegantly.
They have a plan, apparent order.
As they pass,
a thought passes to call & say,
I read this morning that Jean Marais
died in France yesterday.

Across my street the neighbors’ yard is filled with lime snow
as every mulberry leaf falls to the ground
this single morning
following the first hard frost of November.
The day passes,
until driving home in early evening light
a wide curve in the road
leads me to be swallowed whole —
a great golden cottonwood
consuming as I approach
impossible gilt over indigo sky.

Evening passes,
where am I?
Once again staring surreptitiously
at bright stars in the knife sharp night
allotting them a mere glance,
my charm against despair,
contagious in the immensity
of this cold dark air.