Poets of Autumn

Leaves have fallen;
we rake and burn them.
Smoke signals scent the season
bittersweet.

O! How time does go on,
the pendulum never stopping.
No need to grieve for the trees;
they will endure.

Though the air is gathering a chill,
our Isadora scarves
dance in the wind.  We live
in the miracle of today.

This moment is irretrievable;
store it in your heart.
Time stops for no one
but it will pause for your song.

A Great Anticipation

A page turns;
the duration of daylight
becomes noticeably shorter
and the temperature drops.

Equinox or calendar,
the cause little matters.
Blood quickens,
geese flock.

Apples take on a sweeter crisp;
a tang of frost gilds the hills.
Gathering is done;
the river runs swiftly.

Pumpkins grow round
on the vine. Soon they will move
to the stoop, wearing grins
or grimaces.

God is in His heaven,
Mom’s in her kitchen.
The air is rich
with a promise of pies.

The Possibility of Dreams

The season’s change convinced
the vendor by the river
to give up tomatoes
and fishing worms,
There were no fishermen
and the garden is done.

So now he’s turned to roses,
wind blown but proud
they are beacons on a stormy shore.
Their stems are trimmed
of thorns and vagrant leaves,
They speak in hues

that delight the eye, and who
I ask you, could not spare a dollar
for a long stemmed beauty
or for an old man alone
living on pennies and memories
and the possibility of dreams.

Easing into October

Evening is serenaded
by the seventeen year symphony
even though it’s only been ten years
since the cicada’s last song.

Caught in the rain of changing seasons,
gentle and misty with the possibility of storm,
night wears a gauzy moon
and a hint of clearing.

The smokestacks along the muddy Ohio
will never be mistaken for the Eiffel Tower
but Weirton in autumn holds all the magic
of Paris in spring,

There is a promising, an anticipation
that swizzles the air with excitement,
It quickens the blood and stirs the soul
with gratitude.

Storm or sun,
tomorrow is beckoning.

Between Seasons

On a day so light
the glint of a goldfinch
almost (but not quite) blends
with the sun,

flashes of spun gold
spark  as the wee bird darts
to and fro on his mission
of mercy,

or industry,
without ever stopping
to smell the roses, a creature
caught

between seasons,
transient as the leaves
just beginning to turn,
giving up their green

for yellow
and gold, and red-orange.
Debutantes all with no thought
of tomorrow,

they enter the gala
singing  the songs of summer
as they drift
into fall.