Autumn’s border not quite crossed,
but a chill spins in.
Implacable goose captains lead
honking squadrons to bomb Mexico.
Leaves begin to waltz elegantly with death.
Brown supplants green as the color of hooray.
Breezes expel chilly breaths.
Ants have gone underground and plan
attacks to be launched next year.
The season of death approaches.
Another birthday waits in ambush a week off.
The garden retreats beneath the earth,
content to sleep and dream and wait.
Soon will come wood fire and rising smoke.
The world swirls and wizens as I fall,
wondering if there might be
another rotation awaiting me.