Autumn disappears.
While I sit at my desk writing and thinking,
brilliant fades to brown.
Russet leaves, once aflame,
float to the sidewalks one by one
like words on the page.
Dry, piled underfoot, leaves crunch as I walk.
Bare branches reveal giant squirrel nests
and clumps of mistletoe—hidden there the whole time.
Frosty mornings and cold nights.
Another Arkansas full moon.
Soon it will be Christmas.
Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.
