It is the season of All Hallows.
Candles stand in cross-hatched windows,
and leaves like twisted tears
spill on the front lawns.
Fences mark the borderlands of walkways,
and houses are adrift in the covered yards
where Autumn sparks its red-gold fire
deep in the guts of things.
How can I name this time?
My recollections are as numerous
as leaves that descend
on stone paths and clear puddles.
In this season of pumpkins,
an aching feeling thrusts its bloom
upon the small-frame houses,
the mellow worlds of acorn and hay field.
The past with its gloves
tucked in corduroy pockets
grips abundance for the last time,
and lets it fall.
Donna Davis of Camillus, NY, is a former business owner and teacher. Her work appears in Slipstream Review, 3rd Wednesday, Tipton Poetry Journal, The RavensPerch, Comstock Review, Down in the Dirt, Front Porch Review, Pudding, Homestead Review, Burningwood Journal, The Raw Are Review, and others. She was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
