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Ode to Late Fall

Sterling Warner

October:
Tulgey tulle fog hangs like a thick woeful curtain
of miniature teardrops from high in the welkin’s
royal firmament down to mother nature’s frost bitten
face far below; whining wheels blindly slice through
the grey soupy screen, headlights reflect off precipitation,
create a steady glow, guide other drivers like a lighthouse.

November:
Autumn shakes her amber head, exhales
into the early morning, chills all near-naked
branches and once thriving shrubs, her blustery
breath blowing lingering russet leaves off
stubborn trees resisting change’s challenge:
dwindling daylight hearkening the impending solstice.

December:
While seasonal Canadian geese migrate south,
bohemian waxwings and Lapland longspurs grow a
second set of feathery down insulating their bodies, adapt
to white wintery blankets, encroaching ice, freezing ponds;
meantime neighboring pheasants embrace fluffy fallen flakes
by flapping wings, leaving unmistakable snow angels behind.

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