September 1: Though acorns start to fall,
And equinox is still three weeks away,
We lose the evanescent light of day;
Despite bright mornings, night begins its sprawl.
October 1: The pumpkins are for sale;
Chrysanthemums grow gold or tawny rust.
Towards Halloween the warm days start to fail;
The migrant birds pursue their wanderlust.
November 1: The leaves are ashes now:
A cold wind sheared their glory from the trees.
A robin’s nest, deserted on a bough,
Begins to fall apart with each stiff breeze.
We watch the year begin to quickly go.
December 1: The weather forecast—snow.
—Mary-Patrice Woehling
