Autumn is a pressed leaf
On a page I’ve already read,
Stained yellow by the
Finger-print of my younger self.
Fall brings about the kind of nights where
Each picture window facing the wood
Splits itself like a tapestry into
Shifting shapes of cinnamon and honey-sky.
Streetlights flash their censors a little
Earlier each evening, and the yellow checks
Of window-glass from neighboring houses
Beckon to winter birds and wood vermonLike branch-lanterns from another era.
Autumn is an old man in a red shirt
Reading a forgotten newspaper that blows
The aging faces of it’s stories across
Lawns full of ever-green the foliage of pine.
We embroider our early nights of spray-paint orange
And coal-stove cinder, carnivals and hayrides.
We drink apple cider in the backs of cars,
Happy and pressed knee-to-knee like thirsty clowns.
September is a fresh sundress
You can no longer wear without a sweater,
It’s a boot-full of pine cone and red pepper,
Fresh potato soup simmering,
And the sweet molasses of cornbread baking
against the cozy, crackling logs of a bonfire.
This is a season-full of rusty cars,
Bodies swaying against a solstice-colored sky
To a small-town band in a country field,
their drums beating the sweaty bluesof summer into some other hemisphere.