Roots in North Mississippi
for me,
in New Hampshire
for my daughter-in-law,
leave us looking
at sad trees
in South Mississippi.
As green leaves
turn brown
and drop,
we long for
autumn.
Searching for
the season
requires an eagle eye.
Still, we try.
Goldenrod
outdoes itself
sprinkled
amongst the weeds and
lining the roadside,
defying its reputation
as an allergen,
that rightfully belongs
to the inconspicuous
ragweed beside it.
Changing temperatures
on humid mornings
work their magic
turning the common
spider web
into a bejeweled
work of art.
Purple comes
in wildflower blotches,
ageratum in the
weed patches.
Robins,
not like spring
by ones and twos,
migrate in flocks,
foraging for food,
covering the lea,
black backs enclosing
their red breasts.
The sweet gum
sets its own course
with brilliant yellow,
refusing to follow the
brown tree crowd.
Purple blossoms again
in the cultivated asters,
a gift from my
gardening sister.
Gulf Fritillaries
nervously flit
from lantana to
zinnia and back again,
filling their
tanks with fuel to
migrate to Florida,
or maybe, Mexico.
Hated poison ivy
steps up,
flaunting its one good trait,
climbing the trees
in brilliant
crimson glory.
Kelly and I
find what we can
in our sparse fall season.
Another year –
with Covid tamed –
as autumn falls,
I foresee a trip
to New Hampshire
or at least
to North Mississippi.