Apple jelly, wood cutting,
pear pie, windows shutting.
Arms of grapevines growing mounds
arching greens upon the ground.
Buckeyes fruit, late and sallow,
leaves dropping first to fall.
Thick and prickly flesh rises
to night’s sightless icy breezes.
Sun hides, static, pallid
within a seamless, cloudless pall.
The Mother’s hills are
thinned and brown
where soles of summer
have worn her down.
Don’t, yet, give in to the cold.
Don’t, yet, let it take hold.
Put the woolen sweater back.
Rest sandaled feet in the Mother’s talc.
Open the window,
wrap in Her afgan,
draw heated breath
with every the pass of the fan.
Crickets still summon
honeysuckle's song
for Indian Summer
just
around the corner.
around the corner.
