In light of the winding down of Summer—oh, the sad, sweet departure of blue skies and dazzling colors and wistful stray clouds dancing along the horizon and lazy afternoons at the swimming hole—and the coming of, dare I say it, Fall and, ultimately (arg!) Winter, I am re-posting this seasonal poem by the incomparable Brian Fanelli.

The leaves lay like a wound,
red and deep across the lawn, while what remains
is frightened away by bursts of November wind.
I look at concrete-gray clouds and sigh,
knowing it is time to cover flower beds,
yank out roots of annuals,
their petals shriveled and frail, as fine as dust
released to the air.
Soon I will cut back roots of perennials,
until everything in the yard is brown,
until birds no longer chirp,
but vacate their nests,
more visible now as branches of trees
shake against the wind
and scrape against windows like angry fingers,
while the house creaks at its joints.

©2016 Brian Fanelli