The euonymus are flaming. 
Their little feather leaves, red
as coxcomb and wattle 
on a rooster’s head.
Red standing out from the rest,
like the wheelbarrow (in that poem)*
so much depends upon.
Each bush a fireball of heat
set aflame by October. A last-blast
celebration before winter’s wan.
Take notice, Red says. Take heed.
Gather all you need; shore up.
What’s ahead can be harsh.
Gather wood now, 
so together, we may sit, 
rosy, at the fire.

* The Red Wheelbarrow, by William Carlos Williams

Just like that, leaves are red in swaths
tinted by a perennial brush. 
Autumn hues orange, gold, yellowed.
All of a sudden, it’s cold in morning’s hush
and dark. Fog hangs in valleys until the chill has mellowed.

Just like that, sun seems precious. 
A limited commodity to be hoarded. 
An aid in the battle against scarcity.
All of a sudden, geese fly overhead, squadron sorted,
sailing the clouds toward warmth, squawking commands with levity.

Just like that, I tug for my share of sheet
in morning’s chill, instead of pushing it off 
to avoid the humid sweat of August.
All of a sudden, t-shirts aren’t enough;
long pants are pulled from drawers; thick sweaters become a must.

Just like that my little blond-haired boys look like men.
At the table, my husband and I shadowed with long silence.
Parents seem brittle like branches; dry, and primed to snap.
All of a sudden, life’s like a movie; scenes gone by in sequence.
Family pets grown old. I rock them, 
our small moments and big events piled in my lap.