I wake up to frost on my pillow,
ice in the air whenever I breathe.
The chrysanthemums are blooming violet,
taking over the garden again.

I've missed these days when the leaves
lose all their green and become themselves
before surrendering to rising winds
that bring charcoal and pumpkin seeds.

Wrapped up in a turtleneck sweater,
I bake pies for the season.
I let the falling leaves and flailing branches
have the first taste of apple and cinnamon.

Sometime when the fruit is ripe
and the corn is gone, we should go lose ourselves.
Trailing our hand-knitted scarves through
maizefield mazes and frozen gourd patches.

The sun flashes from its southern setting,
matching hue-for-hue the sky and the ground.
Trees and clouds strive to achieve similar shades:
never-ending cascades of orange and red.

I wake up to frost on my pillow,
ice in the air whenever I breathe.
I stare out my cold windowpane in the sun,
watching everything go out with a bang.

© Jess Zelhart, 2004. Thou shalt not steal.