After Biltmore Backyard by Robb Shaffer
In autumn I hunger for seasons,
the small fires of October
burning fields to the root,
skies suffused with smoke,
reducing summer to ash, to
leaf mold and yellow sheaves.
A ribbon of migrating geese
sounds their convivial trumpets.
Naked oaks, late-season
bathers caught in a chill,
spread their silver branches,
catching a last bit of sun.
Covens of pines summon forth
winter; the smallest Japanese
maples burst into flame.
