Like riding a rusty whetstone:
you pedal fast, the round stone
chirring in frayed summer heat.
Then, when you slide your thumb
along the blade edge, leaves
are falling in their wary beauty.
Everyone knows it’s the most
nuanced month, cycling between
bronze and iron, ochre and dun.
This way it always surprises,
never disappoints, never leaves
you ragged in a field of goldenrod
for long, looking up at blue sky
where clouds begin to darken
a landscape slowly stilled, silent,
without scent, sharp as steel.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 4.