New England Autumn Potpourri

NEW ENGLAND AUTUMN POTPOURRI
BY ELIZABETH SOUTHWOOD

SACKVILL@AOL.COM

I lost my October
when we moved
from Massachusetts:
parchment-crisp
fallen leaves,
clair-de-lune-gold,
redder than Mars,
with a moldering scent:
New England autumn potpourri,
when scuffed
and crunched
in chilly air
by laughing children,
darting among
pumpkins for sale
on ivy-green lawns.
Birch-white Cape and colonial houses
hunkered down more each year,
on leafy tunneled lanes
where isinglass ice
silvered pothole puddles.
The fragrance of sliced apples
boiling soft in maple syrup
wafted from those antique homes,
where I walked among stands of trees
in autumnal gloom
on damp ground covered
with McIntosh Red leaves,
by ponds and a singing river.

A Ruth of sorts, I
live today
near a second-growth
redwood forest
on an amber hill
overlooking The Bay.
I sweat out hot October,
anointed with sunblock,
dressed in shorts, sandals,
and wide-brimmed hats.
Each year, I find, one day
I look around and think or say,
“Something’s different today,
the angle of the sun?"

Shadows lengthen
next to cedar-blue
eucalyptus trees.
Dust motes float
in slanted beams of sun
which flow through
clumps of leaves on
live-oak trees.

I ache for Massachusetts,
cold snaps and color riot,
but even in
California
it feels like fall.