Growing older I descend November.
The asymptotic cycle of the year
plummets to now. In crystal reveries
I pass beneath a fixed white line of trees
where dry leaves lie for footsteps to dismember.
They crackle with a muted sound like fear.
That and the wind are all that I can hear.
I ask cold air, “What is the word that frees?”
The wind says, “Change,” and the white sun,
“Remember.”
— Electra, by Marilyn Hacker