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.