Had I the words, I would ask these shifting 
autumn winds to stay their chilling aggression 
–  give me just one more warm summer day.
I am old and well recall how your breathy visits
forecast the need for coats, gloves and rubber boots.

In currents swirling too soon, your hint of winter
loosens the grip of summer leaves on branch 
until trees grandeur lies rusting on the ground
leaving trunk and arms of aspen as white scarecrows
embarrassed and shivering in our mountain vales.

There is no bitterness or intent in weather’s 
changing ways and I know prayers to the seasons 
are as likely to be answered as a soldier’s prayer 
that no bullet carries his name, yet just trying gives 
me hope, and like prayer, is neither hard nor pointless.