Equi Homme




and then the alarm rang

and I awoke;

suddenly ready

to welcome winter, 

with autumn

still thriving

and strengthening. 

But I can sense it


and I notice the angle

of the suns declination

and that is all I need.

I go into the distance

where winter 

awaits me:

My warmest lover. 


What lingers is sadness

Some of the late
autumn trees
still hold their leaves.
They fill-in
behind those
for whom the last leaf
has long-ago
moved on.
The beautiful austerity
of the naked trees
reveals a certain vulgarity
for those still showing
summers finery.
Each silhouettes itself
as perspective shifts
in my passing,
and the outstretched fingers
of the many
seem to accuse the rest
of a treachery.
The cloaked trees
know what’s coming
and they don’t care.
They hunch their shoulders
and turn inward.
They will welcome winter
and then disrobe:
trading the warmth of the leaves
for the demure dignity
of soft snow.


Some light
The autumn trees,
willowy and delicate,
showing colors
unique to each,
in row after row:
reds, oranges,
browns and yellows,
quiver and dance
in the light breeze,
in flashes,
their colors
and then
The puddles
show back
the gray sky
and exult
with every passing car.
Turned leaves
spiral with the wind
and collect in shifts
on grass and curb.
The wind rises up
and batters the house
making sounds
from silent siding
and giving voice
to the stoic structures
while cleaning out
the refuse of summer
with autumn’s broom.

One more leaf

I watched
as one of autumns leaves
tumbled across the road,
it’s golden silhouette
illuminated in the headlights
of an early morning commute. Thousands still
lie matted to the ground,
wet and turning to pulp.
In the trees overhead
millions more shone
in amber,
gold and green…
turning to browns.
We marvel
at autumns turn,
expressing in awe
our thoughts
on this beauty
born of summers death.
We never do this,
in our daily lives.
Most of us shun death.
My neighbor died,
His people came
to say goodbye.
I have lived next to him
for almost a decade
and I could not be moved
to cross the line
between his yard
and mine.
I had known he was sick,
knew it was fatal,
and I never reached out.
He was turning amber,
gold and green
and I never tried
to find the beauty.
I knew, even as it unfolded,
that this was a failure
within me.
But this morning
one leaf tumbles
and in it
I see the loss.

October’s Passage


autumns fingers


to a clear sky


vivid sunsets

as October wanes

to her hallowed-eve

and the nights

grow cold.

I saw a frosted car

in the shadows of a building

and recognized

November’s approach

and paused

to consider

October’s hasty exit

and my failure to be aware

of her passing.

Those leaf-robbed trees

shake accusingly at me

as deep autumn wind

rattles their naked bones.


may I have this dance?