The vibrancy of yellow ripened leaves dazzles
against a grey sky which seems perfectly at home
though it was still summer yesterday.
They scatter themselves on the pavement,
a yellow road which leads not to Oz,
if only due to an excessive lack of green.

We’re hunching toward winter,
resigned to the inevitability of changing fortune,
a complaint never far from lips
which remember the dry bite of bitter air
like a cruel kiss.

A rallying cry of “I’m not ready!”
even as I make plans
to switch tires
and crawl into the back of the closet in search,
not for Narnia,
but the heavy coats which hid it from sight,
which come in handier than fantasy
for the moment.

Cries of “I don’t want summer to be over!”
ricochets like a summons to autumn
among trees caught in the throes of abscission,
as those of us looking for excuses to stay in
quietly rejoice.

Photo by Erik Witsoe on Unsplash