The maples hold their golden hands
against the clean, cold sky—
these amber days sharpen
the maroon rust along the curving line
of pines and poplars, sharp as a scythe.
The wooly worms are crawling soft
and subtle in the sediment below.
The air—sharp as the first bite
of gingergold, a breath
like ice water, the suggestion
of cinnamon. See the scarecrow
in the skeleton corn: harbinger of harvest
among the sheaves the singing reapers
will gather soon. We’ve passed
into the sunset of the year’s long day.
Gramercy; even Death looks lovely, in its way.