The Cusp of Autumn

Autumn is late this year, but brilliant.
Sun on the colors. Sun in her hair.
Sweaters and old flannel shirts.
Long walks are in order.
Colors through the trees.
A wind that cannot decide its temperature
or direction.

About this poem

About the cusp of fall. About aging. Poetry is never about one thing.

The photograph was taken along the road to the Last Diner Standing, where I have breakfast a few days a week.

Tom