top of page
On the first cold morning,
summer cuts its hair
in a motel bathroom.
It leaves the yellow dress
hanging behind the door,
scrapes the sunlight
from beneath its fingernails,
teaches the evenings
to arrive early.
At the bus station,
it buys a brown coat
and a ticket under the name
Fall.
No one recognizes it.
Not the birds packing their songs.
Not the children carrying jackets.
Not the shopkeepers replacing lemons
with cinnamon.
Only the trees know.
They see summer
hiding heat inside its sleeves.
One by one,
they turn red
and begin dropping evidence.
bottom of page