A bird’s slow, disconsolate whistle
And another, quickly in and out,
like fingers sliding over frets
Cracked tan leaves spread –
spilled like salt across the ground
heaping and scattered
in these early autumn days
Melancholy in the air,
hanging, branches laden,
ripe with fall fruit
dropping to the ground,
some withered, some fresh
some with droplets of tart juice oozing
October’s crisp, clear air is missing
While this, summer’s refuse,
Clings in a slick bitter knot
Unwilling to be unwound
Poetry and Verse 