By Minerva Cook
The last leaf
loses its grip
bronzed scarlet
falters, flutters,
joins its mates below blending into broken browns.
The naked sugar maple
shivers in a wind that
promises ice and snow.
It is said a wish made
when the last leaf falls
will be good for a year.
When I don’t believe in wishes,
how can I make a wish?
Butterflies no longer hover
over spent goldenrod and asters.
The crickets are silent in dead grasses,
songbirds have flown south.
I zip up my coat and
continue my walk.
I cannot outpace
the chill that follows me.
