Autumn

And so we come at last to late October. The rain makes a soft
pat-pat-pat on dark garden clay, falling slowly on purple asters
and tickseed unfurling late in the season
(final pennants of bright before the long dark days).
In the backyard a cluster of roses droops, half-hidden
in the gloaming.

Last week, the trees were on fire. Down the street,
up the highway, and into the corners of my mind.
They flew banners of gold and russet and a hundred shades
of red. They quaked and shook with every
errant gust. Intimations of immortality?
I think not. Merely presentiments of night.