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New England Season

Our New England season was warned to us.
It was rumored in the smoke of August’s barbecue.
And slipped from underneath a mulch pile.

Our burly season sits in a weave of rag wool
It whispers to us in hot cider steam
And rides on hay bales behind a tractor.

Our flannel season rests on corn field stubble.
It stretches before us in shadows over gnarly bark
And hides beneath dry fractured crunch.

Our crashing season simpers in crumbling leaves
It rushes, crushes and crinkles ahead of each step
And blushes like pumpkins on your cheek.

Our hand holding season snags the breath of a waterfall
It wishes for hot chocolate, pie, and turkey
And rides on the tail of a red tailed hawk.

Our learning season rings its bell in pale grey linoleum
It is a wide open bulletin board populated by thumb tacks
And leaks out of your new backpack.

Our gravestone rubbing season chaps your lips
It knits charcoal in feathers with breezes
And glistens like sugar and sap.

Our Autumn reminds me to say I love you.
Our Autumn reminds me to bundle up.
Our Autumn reminds me to rake.
Our Autumn reminds me it is our New England season.

Comments

  1. SandyCarlsonSeptember 5, 2010 at 6:20 PM

    Your poem brings me home like nothing else has yet. Thanks. I so very much needed that.

    And now I am hungry for apples.

    ReplyDelete
  2. SandyCarlsonSeptember 18, 2010 at 7:37 PM

    Evaporating fudge? I have a special delivery for you, my friend. Nothing, nothing is like the appetite of autumn.

    ReplyDelete

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