White pine baskets at the 
farmer’s market hold
autumn’s panoply of apples,
from Arkansas Black to Gala to Pink Lady.
On the oak table next to them,
displayed for my perusal, lie
squashes, yellow and green, 
night-dark eggplants,
sun-orange pumpkins, 
a few ears of corn,  
a line of late tomatoes, 
and the last jars of honey
gathered from this farm’s bees.
I plan apple pies, eggplant timbale, 
ratatouille with this 
growing season’s last hurrah.
Looking beyond the table, 
in a far corner of the field,
I spot a pile of stunted rotting fruit,
tangled vines, dried cornstalks.
These, my farmer friend explains
will become a bonfire, 
destination of all failed crops.
I plan a return, consign my own failures
to these flames. I want to
watch my troubles reduce to ash
caught by autumn’s breath,
whisked far from me,
farther than I can see.
 
In a few days, these tables will be clear,
surrounding trees, now festooned 
in scarlet and golden finery,
 will reach up, their branches 
naked but unashamed,
reach up to pull goodness down
from clear cold skies
surrender dry twigs to us 
to warm our houses
while we wait until
outdoors once more breathes with
softened ground, fertile, and we can
plant with hope, seeds set 
aside from this harvest gathering,
preparing for a new season.
 
Gratitude is all I have to 
offer in return.
                        

Driving home into the sunset
Gold dust of late afternoon
Transforms the asphalt
Transforms my thoughts
Autumn’s richness 
Strikes me, not her signaling of loss
She is not a harbinger of winter barrens
Rather, she reminds us
Winter is a time of gentle rest
Before spring’s love embraces
Earth once more.
And I am grateful.