Risen stag moon, omen of failing sweat. In the dark you almost can’t tell it's autumn. The bluegrass asking hounds to trample it before the snow will. The song of light split open at the solstice—we muddy puddle small our many cedar welts. Lure the cold unruly and blow breath palmward. If god is the place that heals, November is the cairn that buries. Abscissing leaves stabbing like antlers into the nights frigid back as stars stack feldspar stones on our tongues. On the coolest nights, I turn to my husband for sleep.  We trust deer in our dreams to keep us warm. We trust our marriage will survive the coming winter. The white space between everything, not a gap, but a farrow it would take only a moment to cross.