Penumbra

There one day appears a dull ache
in the form of a cold vertical burn
running the length of the windpipe,
as though autumn air was filling the lungs
after a long run, as though autumn
was filling the body with the frost
of a promised but not yet present winter.
It appears, settles with nettled spokes,
drags skin and hair down to mingle with the silent fall
of maple leaves and brown staghorn branches,
littering the ground under the soles of summer shoes
with a halfhearted reminder of cloudless light
and sun that did not just blind but warmed,
and a body that did not just walk inside of coats,
but inside freckled skin that, until sunset, lay on grass
to watch the purple bruise of darkness seep,
knowing of the ache to soon set in,
trying not to think about the darkness as bad,
because really all that nightfall is
is a shadow cast in slow motion.