Fall comes this time in hushes
episodes of susurrus crawling
warm through the body out
the arms and hands tingling.
The seasonal changes like
picking up prescriptions
from one of the Saints
Saints Cosmas and Damian.
A last clique of birds crush
through the dry Dutch Iris
patch flowers from Portugal
and Spain not Netherlands
and the dry stalks of the day
lily not actually a lily lives
longer than a day Spring
through Fall and housing
to butterflies and moths
and ladybugs galore
fall sufficiently orange
and red yet cool.
Sweaters come out
the song sparrows
the geese and loons
over the yard sales.
Along the streets we see
clean-up and pick-ups
pods and mod bods
collecting for storage
rakes in hand sifting Pacific
Northwest where Spring
is electric Fall acoustic
clawing through the dust.
Down south in Amador
the Big Crush soon on
grape harvest moon –
If I were only a bird
I would share a green carafe
of red wine with my sisters
and brothers once again
in Fall looking back on.
The Coming of the Toads 