Sensing The Change
by Gail Denham

Cold filters under the door, silent,
a foretaste of autumn. Leaves scatter
on our dry lawn. I shiver with a vision
of mittens, wool scarves, wood fires.

I’m not yet convinced, even though I feel
frost tuning up. Jackdaws sounded this
morning and a magnificent red cardinal
flew to a feeder. One purple periwinkle
tenaciously blooms by the deck.

Gray smoke from late summer forest fires
hangs lazily overhead, lays ash on my car
hood, irritates my eyes, overworks fire
personnel, colors the sunset and moon red.

Yet the pumpkins are not full orange;
they’re a bit small to carve into faces
where candlelight will gleam from eyes
and nose, as they decorate my front porch.

Sunshine still warms my shoulders,
stars stud the clear skies when smoke
clears. I applaud autumn, but tightly
grasp summer’s tail.


 

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