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Not many like this.

Not many, but only a few are needed

to thrill, to alarm, to warn

of what beauty, change, wonder

is coming. Upon us in a week, perhaps

beyond the humid, sticky days that

make the kids complain of school clothes,

hot classrooms, teachers droning

like fat and frantic flies at the window.

Soon enough wind, like the breath of God

cold rain, misty mornings, icy moons

sliced in a navy sky

The call of geese above, sandals tossed

to the back of the closet.

Soon enough gold, slender knife-blade willow

leaves edging the pond.

and then the silver trim of ice.

But not just yet. Soon, soon, but not just yet.