where wind is painted red
and the trees speak to me
as if I were something more
than just a lovelorn poet.
The crisp air makes my mornings
hollow and hopeful
like the fault of songs is to sing,
and what the day brings
will be warm and delicious,
something to be seen and eaten
on a porch whose soundtrack
is crunching leaves and kids playing,
and trucks and crows.
Every good girl
I have ever known
was born in autumn,
and so I wipe the dust
from every mirror
for Octobers are for start new,
and asking the dust
to be different.