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Hints of Fall August 30, 2007

Posted by vsap in Poetry, Uncategorized.

Even the hints of Fall are oppressive to me:

The sun setting earlier, the leaves beginning to cover ground.

And I shutter at the cold even living here in the South

Where there are no parkas and there’s folks in shorts

even at thirty degrees or so.

It’s when the dew is stiff on the blades of grass

not moist in the clutches of humidity, and it dazzles,

yes, it truly does, but it signals the freeze to come.

 Breath is a wisping cloud, here one moment, gone

the next, but that you can see it is what makes it cold.

And the car door crackles like rice cereal, abandoning that

deep resonant sound you hear in summer when joints are

loose and strong and agile. They crackle in the cold!

You can say it’s my age and I can say it’s experience.

If you spent sixteen winters in Chicago, you know what

it’s like while the genteel Southerner can demur.

I keep my Northern Face ready, along with an LL Bean,

in the event this global warming thing goes upside down,

as it surely will, as it already has, as it must.



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