Turning of the Leaf

Arvilla Fee

It’s the bend of wind,

that first delicious chill

that has you reaching

for your sweater;

it’s the tear-dropped rain

on windowpanes

mere days away

from freezing,

the bursts of red

and gold from leaves

once a hunter green.

You know it’s coming—

the bite of frosted nights,

forgotten spider webs

bedecked with diamonds,

but this change does not

send you inside to burrow,

does not temper your walks

in pine-needle padded forest.

Instead you embrace this season

as one would embrace a new lover,

take delight in the puffed cheeks

of brown squirrels storing acorns,

watch your cloud-shaped breath

hang in front of you like a specter.

Each night, longer than the last,

carries the scent of bonfires

and the aching-sweet promise

of snow.