Let us sit, dear friend
for some light palaver on
Autumnus you were named by the Ancient of Days.
Your smell is of earth in hospice.
Flesh and bones decay to promise renewal.
Your cold breath strips leaves whose time has come
and branches groan, It is time. It is time.
You paint the earth with a pallet of blood tones.
You prepare the canvas for the white cloak of Winter.
We celebrate you with feasts and goblins.
You must forgive our childish prattle
and tolerate our simpleton gestures.
We call you Fall out of our ignorance.
Your pulse promises resurrection.
It is time.
A poem from three years ago . . . Happy First Day of Autumn!
Weapons anchor her girth.
Camouflage fatigues belie
the softness she reserves for her infant son
entrusted to a friend a million miles away.
And as she hunkers down
beneath desert stars in makeshift barracks
Let him be safe tonight.
Diapers, schoolbooks, chores.
Her daily domesticity camouflage
the fierce warrior alert and poised
to guard and protect.
And as she nestles in
beside her sleeping husband
My sons are safe tonight.