In drop-leaf time
when the cider man presses red-ripe applesinto hardwood casksand southbound V's whistle across gray-soft skiesAutumn draws summer's frost-bitten remainsinto knee deep pilesand Earthbound O's burrow sleepilyunder their warmth.Then go you and I,
whistling our own October harmoniespressing hands deeply into fleece-lined pockets,tucking chins snugly into breath-warmed scarves.A last minute waltz
stolen among a ring of ancient oaksone Indian summer afternoon,slips unfinished beneath our leaf-dusted feet.Winter gusts between us,
rustling leaves that must hold secretthe moment of our passing.
