Fall
Oct 7 2008


I mostly say “fall”
this time of year —
when life resumes;
there is order, once more.

While “autumn” is one of those poetry words
that seems unnatural
chatting with the neighbours.
But a word that conveys the melancholy I feel
— something bittersweet,
like burnished leaves
and wood-smoke.
When the days grow short
and the light, thinner.
And the air is dry and clear,
respite from the delirium of August.

I’d rather enter into winter this way
than fall,
leaves dropping
their trees stripped bare.
Or as man once did,
falling from grace
expelled from His fabulous garden.

This autumnal season,
setting the stage
for the year’s gentle exit.
When the first snowfall
can wait.
And the light has yet to fail.
And the leaves, before they fall
in all their earthly glory.