of the four we name the most, fall is the greatest season.
it settles down, oversized feathered winds
blowing fragile collections at our window as we drive down the hill.
we hang comfort on our shoulders,
stand amidst the swirling with hands in lined pockets
like some great solitude of hidden worth, always looking alone,
always feeling love and failure and memory.
fall points outside of itself in memory,
to strangers lost and loves diminished,
to friends dead and dying, to acquaintances' gentle colors.
it points to early spring snow at a funeral,
to chantal's taking off and david's coming down,
to quiet flakes on the dark windshield that night,
and to having shared it with one who has diminished.
of the four, fall is the warmest.
overestimating cold morning's hold on midafternoon,
overcoats in summerish sun, sweatish brow,
hot hair and carseats that woke up with a chill.
there isn't any other right now
than my corduroy, than my sinuses
than the dewed lawn as a sea for shortwalks,
wetting toes like a static rain that becomes our bodies.