First day of fall, a textbook case with bleary sky and chilly
Air, some twenty-five degrees below the warmth of summer's
Final day. The end's no longer near. It's here, with gins
And tonics traded for assorted dusky whiskey drinks,
And sandals swapped for clunky shoes. The nights arrive
Abruptly, like some dreadful Quaker moralist, who hurries
Everyone inside. We'll lose the lawn to fallen leaves,
And, afterward, to drifting snow, and life, despite a series
Of not altogether fun occasions, Halloween, Thanksgiving,
And then Christmas Day and New Year's Eve, will shrivel
Into weeks of waiting, staring glumly out of windows,
Seeking signs of spring.