Saturday, September 11, 2021



Here we are again

On the cusp of this 

Melancholic season 

Of transient fullness.

Hustling, racing around,

Gathering our harvests

In bundles and bales,

Tallying a tenuous abundance

Before the first frosts.

Shipping it out, selling it off

Before it all just rots.

The cusp of anything good

Is a bittersweet celebration

Even my heart is swelling

Beyond its assigned cage 

As the temperature dips.

You sense it intuitively,

Reaching for your sweater

Before you even start to shiver.

Threads must unfurl

Seams must burst

Trees blooded with color

Have reached the inflection point

Before they themselves 

Must empty themselves, drip by drip,

Until knock-kneed and naked 

As saplings first sprung from earth.

I like watching them sway in the fierce,

Freshly awakened North wind.

Their roots must clutch at the soil

As they stand swaying

Amidst widening pools of maroon.