The smell of cotton is wind and dirt.
Leaves tear and it is October who tells

the milky flowers we are caught
in the cricket of night, that if

we want long sleep it's hardwork
and this is why we love it:

the dead don't remember to write it down,
that a century ago somebody stood down-

town and spoke of Walt like a brother
who remembers the music of his homeplace

or a sister's swingset melodies; that nothing
is a mystery when the ordinary is enough

to make us smile.