There is no night but this night,
My fingers almost too cold
And shaking to write.
Nothing ever to drink
But what is in my glass now.
No friends but the ones just departed.
No sound but their laughter in the alley walking home,
and the faint crunch of the first fallen leaves.
No solitude but this solitude,
waiting at my back gate for me to beckon.
No scent but this woodsmoke.
No warmth, but the thought of your shoulder.
No moon but this autumn half moon.
No stars but these,
waiting for Orion.

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