They fall first, in the late days of summer,

when moon hangs lazy in her sea,

low, adrift warm air and wispy clouds.

They float carelessly by without need

to rush, to hurry in unwelcome hours,

until the rest fall suit. Color

dances in a tangled weave

across the branch, as

Season’s wave crests and spills

her luscious leaves to scatter.

Summer greens fall golden brown,

a new chill paints rosy cheek, while

I bundle with my zipper pulled up high

under chin before I bend—

Collecting russet treasures at my feet.

Please subscribe to keep reading.