So Long, Lonesome

30. Windshield Wipers

September ends in rain
wipers going, window open, dampness

waiting at the light watching oncoming traffic
for a half mile in front, headlights on,
coming down the hill
depressing me

to a child this could be
a holiday parade, some wacky race,
but it feels like a mass evacuation,
some one's funeral

September, it ends in rain
just before whatever October
has in store
and the bite of dark November

I wish I had something lighter
to tell you

the streets are wet as are the
black trunks of trees,
the smell of rain, sound of your foot steps,
the dripping branches.

Fists in empty pockets,
you walked everywhere then,
always hungry,
thinking at least it's still warm.

You could feel your heart.

29. Tangled Alright

Never know who you'll see,
one of these days it might be me.

When the mask drops or
the grip slips or
the invisible line is crossed or
someone turns on the lights.

It gets closer.

Low -Lullaby

28. Not Without Glory

Warm and humid today for Fall,
but it progresses relentlessly
despite the daily skirmishes
put up by a few stray
raggedy assed
rebels of summer.

The hard framework of the trees begin to show
grey and brown and stark against the sky
which has gone the color of war.

At night we close the windows
and reach for blankets.

It's dark now when we rise, and
getting dark again on the commute
home from work.

It's the struggle that makes me love this season.
All in vain -

Winter howls in the near distance
running it down like a pack of
hungry wolves, and
the long cold darkness
inches this way steadily
and unblinking to
snuff this.

In the meantime, these
warm days of Indian Summer-
brilliant sunshine and dry pleasant air
or gentle rain, the smell of earth
and changing vegetation,
under magnificently clear and painted skies -
moments of staggering beauty.

Fleeting...

It should probably just quit,
give in to looming darkness,
surrender to the cold - lie down, let go...
it's inevitable...

But every year the struggle blazes -
orange, red and yellow - bravely,
as though there were some chance,
until it is quietly and finally
overwhelmed,
not without
glory.

Like us.

27. Haiku For A Late September Morning

Rainy morning breaks
Bleary, Weary, and Dreary
Three Dwarves of today