Autumn. Arrives
slowly, drenched in summer memories of rain.
Water. Lentils, soup, and surely a spicey tea
for evenings when thoughts warm,
nestle in daydreams pulled across 6 in the evening.
The news is over. The games begin. The toes in socks
cross each other, fetal, real, rested. A book opens.
A television goes off. Clicker dormant.
Apple crisp waits, cool and sweet
for the tada of the fridge light going on.
Leaves frosted and dry,
churn outdoors
in a chilly wind spinning names
and sounds calling Winter.
