Passing

So briefly, October rushes
the turn of the season done
it does not wish to hold us
but move the line along.

It does not keep leafy trees
and ripened seeds, so patient
was the work of sun and bees; and blossoms
petals that filled spring
winds now lift the shells of summer.

It holds not to captivating colors
nor the balanced chills of dusk and dawn
day runs a gamut of blush and gleam
we preview the idle gray
that will later stay to fill air
with white flakes and frost.

October runs a race
the hare of the timely sprint
and it is a tortoise spirit within me
slows to kick leaves,
notes red oak and sugar maple,

and wonders of longer days past when
they were piled high to make a joyous toy.