I want to be taken prisoner

by autumn,

early enough that fields

have not yet

been captured

by death.

I want to pack the gold

of sun's fading heat

into my bones

and hoard it, as a miser

hoards his coin,

to keep despair from invading

when long nights turn dark

with brooding.

Can I dismiss such greed?

Or must I ask forgiveness

for the theft of something

which might warm another's hands

or heart?

Is any thing

too small

to signify?