Gleaming stainless steel tankers
rattle the hills,
vibrating the Ramapo fault,
stopping only to pump oil into old
timber-framed houses that reverberate
with the tension of kettle drums.
Arpeggios of spiraling leaves,
supported by updrafts from the Hudson
and the shear of the Palisades, descend
without ever turning oak-red or maple-yellow.
Acorns await their drop
accelerated by the next gust of wind.
Green leaves of marigolds bleed rust,
fading blossoms snub the cold air
turning thin golden faces to the autumn sun.
I finish shelving oiled garden tools,
moving the red handled snow shovel
closer to the battered sand bucket.
My hands feel this day’s chill
and, like the marigolds, I face west
the strains of winter’s overture
tuning up in the gathering dusk.
This article appears in October 2014.
