Signing a Watercolor, 3am

In the woods
there's a blanket - there
since September -

past my reflection,
my window, the garden
in winter, the gate to the grove.

Beyond the gate,
the moon holds onto honeysuckle
while hardwoods nod
a lullaby with butterscotched limbs.

All things wait to sleep,
and autumn is a persistent leaf -
brushing her name

with lips on my skin.

Carl Bryant