-This poem reflects on the first cool wind arriving across a harvested field, revealing itself through silvered leaves, moving household objects, and the small sounds that accompany autumn’s advance.
It crosses where the corn was cut,
and presses foxtail toward the lane,
then slips between the garden stakes
with scents of earth and fallen grain.
The maple turns its silver side,
the clothesline rises from the yard,
and walnut leaves go scraping past
the rain barrel and garden wall.
Inside, the curtain leaves the sill,
a grocery list taps at its tack,
the flame beneath the kettle leans,
then steadies when the sash comes down.
By dusk, the western clouds are gone,
the field lies bronze beyond the gate,
we close the windows one by one,
while acorns tick across the roof.