Autumn, nicknamed Fall
(and what a come-down),
will ride back into town
soon. Under a half-moon's
green-light cloack.
She'll sew dew
and cut last flowers,
stuff them in her saddle
bags to rot. The smell
of her horse will set
the dogs to barking.
She'll stuff berries
into the bloated bellies
of fattening bears.
Again, she'll lose her temper,
yell, "To Hell with leaves,
I never liked them."
Finally, her mature brother,
Winter, will stomp in wearing
white boots and an ice-cape.
"Get gone, Sister," he'll say,
direct and cold. "Come back
after next Summer. Drop a note
from South America.
hans ostrom 2025
