Old Season Widows

From the finite beads of flattery, I
string invisible rings of engagement
to wrap branches of summered hands.

Constricted are prose callouses, purpling
the blood that swells in my fingertips.
But the heavy fruit does not fall.

Ripened leaves disregard breathy
threats of marching frosts. Gulls
and ladders anticipate late snow.

Stitched by old season widows with
tooth-snapped thread. Bald fossils of
quick labor dangle like dead tails.

Dioramic frontispiece of ink pitchy draft,
I am some eroded prow with shirtless sails.