The cold drives the spiders into our house. I dust the loom, tighten silver threads, fill the shuttle with earl grey, raisins, stove soot. Future is lying before us patterned, dun, and warm. You're looking through the window, calling every falling leaf by its name, it is autumn perhaps, in every case late.
Leaves are fair and dark, torn, wet, and quiet.
This is my first english poem. It's not a poem. It's a late souvenir of a man I exchanged two words with. The quiet American I called him silently by me. Perhaps he was English.