like the curtain which falls at the end of the play
when the applause has faded and the actors gone,
September rains with
autumn breezes blow scents-
flavors of fall, hints of snow,
to the knowing nose.
Maple leaves, edges curled up
ride along eddies in the street--
goldenly scarlet whorls at gutter’s edge.
Evenings with crisped air
snap like applewood logs
on the fire,
perhaps the last campfire of the season,
when the ground lies moist and the wood still damp
held loose in gnarled hands
like horses in the final stretch
know the barn waits warm
as the days go quickly now
down to dark--
that delicious feeling of going home.
Like a last camera flash-
mountainside aglow with autumnsong
as the forest performs an encore to Summer.
September rains dampen,
and the colors retreat behind
the curtain of twigged browns and grey rock.
Yet in the morning mists
if you know where to peer,