Used To Be August

After the first frost:

Hoar

Yard sighs, mother-gray;
brittle blades wake silver-spined—
the forest shudders.

Mr. B. B. Says

“Used to be August,”
he sighs of October rime—
“frost’s gone by lunch now.”

Layers

Fog, river’s cashmere;
Hudson layers for the cold—
winter waves hello.

Dry Suit Season

Neoprene to wool—
paddle will soon be ski pole;
make sure zippers close.

Denning

Bears nose through the duff;
out back, a tarp snaps in wind—
snow hums in the pines.