This first feels like Autumn morning,

A chill is rounding the front door stoop

swaddling new chrysanthemums

cradling plump orange pumkins that are waiting for trick-or-treaters

reminding me of harvest, of all those thanksgivings that have

come and gone and the words and the ghosts of the

people who’ve come and gone with them

A mist rises from the mossy warm earth

a gentle gust swirls fallen leaves around

making a chilly Autumn sound

I sit with steam from my coffee dancing around my face

glancing at dogwood and japanese maple trees,

black bark wet with a shower that must have come in the night

nuances from heaven, I think, how different are the wet, rainy fall days

everything bleak and still

from the sunny days with the light showing off the colored leaves

and a feeling that’s old and happy that I’ve never been able to put into words

maybe it’s just too sacred and some things are meant only for feeling

or maybe, as I have also suspected, the poet in me rests awhile, smiles sleepily at me

when I try to rouse her from a dream

even now I’m frustrated with her …

she won’t give me words I need to describe

this first feels like fall morning

but I sip the coffee and let her rest

maybe she’ll awaken one day

knowing she’s still with me is enough