Your hand grows gnarled. br It makes a fretwork shadow on my face. br The judgment of the mood is Biblical. br I hear you counting red leaves as they fall. br br Frost angels write br Their thousand times ten thousand names on panes. br The heavy candlelabra of gray trees br Lifts ribbon flames of fading warmth in prayer. br br Is this the end? br The woodsmoke of the dusk is indigo. br Your gnarled hand has become less intricate. br Its pressure no more than a passing cloud. br br The bells of dusk br Ring clearly from an Appalachian height. br The cold, gold force of sunset is a shout. br Silence reverberates in brevity. br br I stand alone br My cheekbones brushed by high white peaks of wind.