October 14 (for Michael)
O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
Robert Frost
Beyond the window the maples shiver.
Bony arms reach up in prayer:
A benediction for the mottled and wind weary
Lying lifeless among the needles.
Has it been only days since
Red and gold hands reached out to the sun,
A promise for the beholders
Gazing hopefully in spite of the season.
In the gloaming, a single leaf
Coils its brittle veins, and waits
For the last breath of autumn.
