It’s my favorite season.
Others say that but they
only care about the aspens primping,
dressing up before going out,
and the new bite in the breeze.
It’s cool the way it blows
but that’s not what gets me.

By now, the spiffy colors
shouldn’t fool us
but of course, they do
and that’s the beauty of it.
Love and death
always have their reasons—
they both come through
and we go off
and make it an event.
We mark it on our calendars.

I watch the summer leave
the way I watch you
walk away . . . 
I make sure I feel
it in my bones.
It’s the only frame
of reference I can trust,
the only way to really
read the weather.
I hold a finger up
and mouth my aching truth.
You don’t hear me
call your name.

It’s not a time of year.
It’s not the equinox
or the harvest moon.
It’s not a pumpkin on a postcard
or a Sunday drive
up to the mountains.
It’s the slow descent,
the suicide, the Fall,
the going out
when we don’t see
what’s coming in.
It’s the time of turning,
remembering what we are,
knowing everything will change
and there is nothing more to know,
and nothing we can do.