The hard fall is here
with its
alternating skies
switchblade breezes
tree-blown fruit
jaundiced leaves
perch-pecking turkeys
arcing squirrels
hesitant bucks
nervous snow
Away you summer furniture
checkered tablecloths
candle-lit breakfasts
to be covered with plastic
Time for boredom's chores
And now the words open winter
with desiccated thoughts
when libraries become shields
from the revenge
of poor sentences
The Bradbury
labels October
a rare month for boys
from his lake shore
Waukegan cubbyhole
me at sixty
wishing I could lay in leaves
with a pen
and a crackerjack line
for each detached parchment
that floats to my desk
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