Autumn was too close to solemn.
The silent n,
too understated for the season.
When a metallic feeling bit the air,
Americans called it fall.
Let down
the dusk-blue grapes.
Let out the scope of chapters.
Fall was the real deal.
Fall was the way forward.
You had only to look at the light of God
oiling lengths of the rural guardrails.
Or the centerpiece of fuller’s teasel
the kids spray-painted gold.
What do you think?