warm summer tales with words of August,

July's apt prose of starry days and wandering moons

lie silent, lie cold with Autumn.

Hallowe'en clowns shiver and laugh

and hold their doorsill gifts, like parcels fit for sending,

as brown paper wolves

huddle in the dark and keep their legends in tight places

to frighten future children.

orange pumpkins turn green black

as yellows sing with bursts of old sun's melodies,

reds search and reach as white grows weak

from shorter days and endless nights

while we, still sated with distorted tales of summer's ways

find means and ruse and needs to dismiss;

to follow sage directions of November

and to love it, lest we remember.