The teapot boils
and boils but never whistles.
The rain comes cold and soaks the ground,
and all our lines sink out of true.

November looms,
and the rain obscures the mountains
where snow has already fallen twice.

At night I chant the tasks ahead,
an unconsoling mantra,

but the trees are still blazing.
One is a bright and yellow flame,
a spark struck against its own black bark
and the slate-grey sky.

I set down the sledgehammer,
push the rain out of my eyes.
Take another swing.