Last Autumn again

In autumn darkness
a warmless wind edged
with exploratory fingers
of ice touches our leaves
to the quick; but the tree lives
(it is important to remember
that some of us live)
to leave again.

Grandfather, do you remember
how you said satan had his fingers
curled softly
around the crest of your heart?
how our hands fluttered
like lost butterflies
before settling cold and solid
among the fingers of our hands?

Dry, brittle with color as any autumn,
your leaves are now stacked
and burned with some ceremony;
Your shadow casts long among our trees
and we stand to tend the slowing flame
beside the tree without leaves.