Equinox

Those first, crimson, sassafras leaves;
Harbingers of Fall and its bounty.
The first seen this season; standing out,
As if a luring beacon in the woods.


The smell of seasonal change is on the wind;
Deep, leafy, musty, compost-like.
Slants of light are different, but familiar,
From a different angle, a different time.


Monarch Butterflies are seen to drift along,
Migratory feelings stirring them on their way.
Hundreds of miles distant, roosts await the gathering.
Roosts where grandparents came to rest eons ago.


Persimmon's fruit, not yet ripe, now tinged with an orange hue,
Not so bright as the Monarchs; yet, like them, prompt in arrival.
Cricket sounds in cooler nights usher in the approaching season.
All things in their given time move toward the autumnal equinox.

Phil Miller