Poem: First Frost

Sunrise is still a persimmon glow
striping the horizon low
between the trees.
The sky is gray
and the air is hushed and still.
There is a woodpecker
in the tip top branch
of one tree
beak turned toward the rising sun.
There is a yellow-bellied sapsucker sitting quiet and reflective
in another tree
occasionally preening
its wing feathers.
The sound of a pileated woodpecker
rings out from the side of the house,
a wild shrill hoot that brings to mind
a cartoon asylum.
A few final leaves cling
yellow and stalwart
to the sunrise side
of the mulberry tree.
A grey titmouse arrives
to whir its buzzing call
between the remaining leaves
and now there are three,
creamy breast feathers puffed against the chill.
I am wishing I had cut my hydrangeas,
my roses,
and the red penstemon.
There is stillness and expectancy
in the air.
This is a threshold of change
and we are poised to cross it,
to embrace what comes next.
The oak leaves glow
with a red fire
as the sun continues to climb.


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