Migration

This is our last day together,

the day the birds fly south.

The groundhog burrows in

for winter. The sun shines less.

There is a relation between us

and the events we endure:

when there is motion

in the trees, a rustling not unlike

the removal of your dress, something moves

in me. And I know this distance

between us exists somewhere else.

In the season's change, the swoon

of a leaf, the melodrama of a threatened

snow. Now I am here. You are moving

away from my warm bed. If the birds

are not sad, their singing seems so

to me; their flight, like the moment

of your leaving, disturbs the air

I breathe, seems inevitable and trite,

but now moves me some nonetheless.