Poem: October

October

And leaves fly through the air

like geese

or chatter down the street 

like school children in a lunch line

And I long to run

to breathe the mountain air

And let it rustle my hair

like Grandpa used to

“And you know,” he’d say, 

“I used to have hair like yours.”

And Dad and the uncles

would be cutting wood

while Grandpa

And I drank Scotch.

“Brian, where the hell

are you?” I’d hear Dad say.

“Just here,” I answer.

“That’s a hell of a place to be,”

he’d say.

“I know,” I answer.

And I want the first

snowfall

to touch me

And I forget my coat

And at night the stars

are ice on fire

And I walk out into them.

“And where did you go?”

my wife asks.

I touch my cold feet 

to her warm legs in reply.

“Dressed like that?” she says.

And like this

it’s a hell of a place to be,

But it’s here.

About This Poem

This is quite an old poem from sometime in the late eighties. I always love the fall and October when it's sunny and crisp. This poem holds so many of those memories, and even new ones seem encapsulated here. The picture is from last October in Brattleboro, Vermont of a quintessentially New England scene: a covered bridge. That it's in October in Vermont where the trees turn to their beautiful resplendent colors is fully appropriate for this poem.