Orange is the new Autumn,
and my pumpkin spice candle.
First flicker in the stovebox,
stick match on the mantle.
Warm bisque on the burner
canning jars off the shelf,
crooked stack of split maple,
unstacking itself.
Leaves whistle past the garden
through tomato stake tombs,
now a chicken wired graveyard
of yellow squash bones.
Sun`s backing to the door
holding all the summer days,
dealing out darkness,
8 months until May.
Soon the hills will be Auburn,
the sky sullen gray,
my 70th winter,
life is good
think i`ll stay.
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