Fall in Ohio

the sun clutches the horizon
 longer during autumn
 its orange teeth bite through the dead
 corn stalks that wait
 for the combine’s circular
 blades to cut and leave
 a fallow field of stubble — if

my hand were large enough
 and I could rub the Earth’s face
 I’m sure it would feel
 like my Grandfather’s cheek
 at right around three o’clock
 when the smoothness
 of shaving had worn off
 but his skin still smelt like Old
 Spice and freshly turned earth