Start of October

It's a Maine morning in Jersey.

Gray skies chill the late summer air

from yesterday's rain. The clock

on the kitchen wall reads seven.

My coffee is cold when I take in

the last drop from the bottom of the cup

after just making it. It's October now.

By month's end the leaves

would have turned gold and fallen

to their graceful demises from

their branches, waiting for the rake.

Corn stalks will adorn the front yards

of urban homes. The pumpkins

will be in full bloom, soon to be perched

on the corners of porch steps.

And I sit writing this poem, having

not written one in a long time,

if only to keep from getting rusty.