Autumn arrives. The thick curtain
of green on an eastern hill
opens enough to allow for light,
even as later and later day breaks the crest.
Overnight, the half moon that horseshoes
my neighbor’s land turns the color of clay
fired for months in a summer kiln.
All that russet and gold herald winds
so cold we’ll huddle in our houses,
our backs to the blow.
Chickens will crowd the roost,
their straw nests flattened and bare
bereft of eggs.
Overnight, winter warns of her coming with
tumbling leaves. A north breeze pushes
jesters from their limbs, fooling us
before the occasional white flake
drifts down from the high hills,
more chilling than anything Halloween.
We glance at the cord of wood, worry…
Today the mountains wear their dancing dresses,
clapping and tapping to the fiddle of fall.
Overnight, the bright cycle begins
before we must lean against winter’s wailing wall,
when gray is easily mistook for gloom.
Overnight, hold tight
to the memory of the redbud’s bloom.
Jacob David George 4-12-1982 to 9-17-2014