Pen poised over paper, prepared to compose
I struggle to write my thoughts on Fall
On this Virginia afternoon, in this record-breaking heat.
I can recall those cool Septembers when Frost
divided the seasons distinctly
On the rocky coast of Maine, between tourist and winter.
Harvest blood moons rose low in the sky.
The rolling fogs were tinted vivid
With the oranges, reds of dawn, in a mantle of splendor.
Perhaps it is only Memory’s polish:
I think back upon bus stops and play
As crisp and stimulating, instead of just bitter cold.