Autumn. The season of noticing.
The drama of the leaves
draws die-hard peepers, their senses
stirred by both the artistry and the
smell of decay.
The air shifts from damp and dense
to crisp and dry, knitting sweaters and
hats as if by magic.
Pumpkins, piled onto porches and
spilling down stairs, signal the end of
long summer nights.
Two glittery goblins in gossamer garb
float next to a trellis cloaked in overblown roses.
Golden marigolds and burnt orange bittersweet
dance in watery sunlight beside pastel snapdragons
and the last of the impatience.
Begonias, bursting with waxy red blossoms,
Stand proud in a patchwork of purple, wine
and rust-colored mums.
And beside a hiking trail, a bed of bright moss
cradles a colony of tiny brown acorns.
How comforting! To notice that this,
my favorite season, is not
the death of everything.