BARELY OCTOBER

The leaves of the three trees out front

not yet transformed by nip and chill –

frozen in last night’s early snow.

Falling – every one,

in multitudes all at once.

Not like years past . . .

a glow surrounding the house –

tall tree gods, haloed by Midas touch,

watching over us,

the last to surrender

their mounds of bounty for ritual sake –

to rake and jump into, breathing

the first sweet scent of decay –

as if death were nothing to fear.

Now, only brown, shriveled leaves

a hired hand will dispose of without ceremony –

sucked up and dumped.

No matter I have relished other autumns,

no matter the child reminds me

fall will come again. Not as if

a loved one has been washed out to sea,

my home and thousands more

wrecked by pelting rain and furious wind.

That is tragedy –

so overwhelming I cannot comprehend.

And yet for my lost autumn, I ache.

Vicki Mandell-King