According to the calendar, this morning marks the end of summer. I wrote a poem this morning that’s tentatively titled “Autumnal Equinox,” so it seems appropriate to send summer on its way. Fall is my favorite season and I’m always glad when the air cools and I start seeing apples and pumpkins popping up all over the place.
Fall in Connecticut
Leaves fall from the trees
but words multiply on people.
Small red fruits prepare
to stay under the snow and stay red.
The wild games of children
have been domesticated.
On the wall, pictures of winners and losers,
you can’t tell them apart.
They rhythmical strokes of the swimmers
have gone back into the stopwatches.
On the deserted shore, folded beach chairs
chained to each other, the slaves of summer.
The suntanned lifeguard will grow pale inside his house
like a prophet of wrath in peacetime.