Cicadas’ songs lulled summer to sleep. Now
the crunch of fall’s carpet crush under my feet.
I pull up my collar to block the nip in the air.
Milky pale skies hint of what’s drawing near.
Too soon, nature will cover the confetti
with a padding of snow, before I am ready.
I head back home—pull out paper and pen,
sit by the fire and write to a friend.