October 23, 2016

The smell of wood-smoke walks along beside me
as the leaves sing their rustle beneath my feet
and the leaves still on the trees
look like the most exotic birds and fruits —
sun conures, cock of the rocks, pomegranates, and satinash.
What sense is not engaged by autumn?
I can even taste it on the wind. It tastes of you,
a mixture of richly hued pleasure delineated with regret. — Annette Marie Smith