"in August you would find me frozen"

A Sunday feels a certain way,

when power’s out and wind blows wild,

when all one’s youth returns one day,

with sunlight gold and autumn mild.

The same silence still makes its rounds,

from the kitchen and through the hall.

The house is nothing but its sounds,

the clocks and creaks make perfect fall.

To dwell or ponder does no good,

seasons, like wind, must run their course.

And like this desk of only wood,

I have no strength against such force.

       But could I remain in one moment,

       in August you would find me frozen.