fall

Equi Homme

Warm,

fuzzy,

sleep…

and then the alarm rang

and I awoke;

suddenly ready

to welcome winter, 

with autumn

still thriving

and strengthening. 

But I can sense it

coming, 

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. 

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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.

Beaufort

Some light
housekeeping.
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,
revealing,
in flashes,
their colors
and then
hiding.
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.

Variegated

I can feel the summer wind

call to me again, again

and all I know is I can’t win

and living life’s become a sin…

and I know,

yet I know

that there’s truth

to the rumor

that this is good.

I can hear the winter cry

telling me, “don’t even try”,

it seems unfair if I ask, “why?”

Fall is here, it’s time to die.

Still, I know

it’s all I know

that there’s no truth

to the rumor

that I’m getting by.

October’s Passage

So,

autumns fingers

point

to a clear sky

and

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.

November,

may I have this dance?