Pre-Dawn Memories on Halloween

I sense winter’s first hint
of ghostly action in pre-dawn light,
where the present season is ambiguous
and memories are vivid, where trees in the yard
remain trees in the yard. Inside

in a vase, the long-stemmed pink carnation
I received yesterday to solicit
donations to help prevent breast cancer
does not pretend to be a rose,
and no splash of late-summer green
or early autumn yellowing guides me
into thoughts about snow.

Last dusk, tree leaves appeared
still not fully glorious—
springtime-lime still tips a few
yolk-yellow leaves, wet by the door,
brown curls a few edges,
but no scarlet-tanager red or burnt-orange
promises crunch beside crowned acorns.

My visions of late and early fall
bring scent of a single snowflake
two counties over, where the ground
reaches mountains higher than
here in town. In the pre-morning hush
one snowflake fell, or maybe half a dozen
waned a cloudy fog, nothing at all
for the weatherman to report.

Memory brings annual premonition
of first snowflakes at high elevation,
innocuous as a newly-uncrated crèche
in the window of a department store,
where I see pots, pans,
and children’s raincoats, but no hint

of the grown-up Jesus and His
sacrifice for the world.