My boots are resting easy
on a thin layer of rot and fragrance
and soft bodied brown whispers of apple cores
at the foot of the bowing water logged planks of the front porch.
The orange and red and
crinkle edged leaves the trees shed
are still crunchy despite a weeks worth of rain
that fell two nights ago and from where I stand they are mosaic.
My hands are naked and cold
in the crowded pouches of my vest as
I watch the little souls of my breaths thin in air
that retains its dusk despite terry cloths and coffee and good hash.
Considering slipping my fingers
into the thick down of gloves gifted I am
reminded of my father's words from older days
about how the best way to kill a mosquito is to wait for it to land.
I leave my prickling iced hands
where they are and the thought of him
warms me as much as the day I realized too much
oil can foul a mechanism's function much worse than no oil at all.
My son's bedroom lamp is
still unlit and Enfield upon my shoulder
I begin the sweet and airy walk without him knowing
my disappointment is not with him, but with the end of a season.
