The colors of fall roam slowly through the trees,
starting into the green of the leaves,
inching their way through this season,
catching on like love - until that time when
even love becomes nothing, as mysterious and

certain as the changing of the colors. Look:
this is the kind of fire that measures tones:
the yellows - see them high up along
the fringes - like four-year-olds mixing
fingerpaints, testing every hue and shade, free and

uninhibited. Now they begin to fool around
with those outrageous oranges; next,
the older reds and purples. They scamper
sprightly, kids almost out of control.
Ssh, quiet, listen to their chatter:

they prattle and tattle about the browns.
The sky's not quiet either; greys are
folded, jammed by an impatient wind
skidding through. It pulls patches of blue
in behind the rain; the heat from it all

makes me close my eyes until I reach
through your arms, pull you to me
and murmur how much this October means.
And in front of the fire we will be alone;
no one or nothing else will matter.

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