Trees make a tunnel,
red and orange foliage,
branches arched over roads.
Headlights cut haze,
that crawls across streets
leaves give themselves to wind,
dance and tumble in decay.
This warmth reminds me
of mid-May, when crocuses
reach up like tiny fingers.
I study the sky, the widening
blue canvas pushing out gray.
I want to raise my hands, reach
towards sunlight. Foolish, maybe,
to whisper a prayer to prolong
the warmth, and stretch these days
before winter’s howls and gusts,
when I will wake and clench bed sheets,
the way I squeeze the steering wheel now,
driving through mid-morning fog.
©2018 Brian Fanelli
