The summer was warm, and autumn is late,
the dooryards still green, the harvest time waits.
The first hint of orange occurs to some trees,
the first thoughts of gold to spend,
but they haven’t yet committed to turning.
Some leaves they let go, but not many, not many.
The full blush of autumn is not yet upon them,
its funeral, its pyre, its riot, its feast.
The reds and yellows are still coiling their springs,
embryos of generous abandon. They are faint
among the confident greens, but they're there.
It will take time, but time will come, and the changes.
I walk through these woods, ripening, and I know.
Already tomorrow smiles in me, glowing.
A single tree, fearless, throws its beauty to the sun.
—September 28, 2018