Religious Scholar

What's not to like about the Fall?

Walking through the crunchy woods,

Flaming leaves—scarlet, gold--

Underfoot in slippery soggy pads.

Avoid the sweet gum spikes

And chestnut burrs;

Grey squirrels wisely stick

To acorns round and smooth,

Sharp teeth firm on

The gleaming shell

As they ripple through the rustling trees

Into the Fall-dark dell.

Winter's not so near: all's alive,

There's last-chance harvest

Fever in the air.

Goldenrod and snakeroot pollen

Tickle the throat, and

Even deer, fat with winter's threat,

Sneeze and whistle

When we met.

And such a soughing

In the heavy maples' beat:

A wild declivity of falling leaves,

Confetti, at our feet.

We raise arms, leap

Onto parkbench seat,

And scramble back

Into a hidden cove

To catch the echo of

A flock of geese.

Frozen in time and

Fixed on the pond,

Before great splashing in

The lake beyond.

A dozen species—bird, geese,

Ducks—rock with noisy

Eagerness, then flutter in a rush

Of spray and sand,

Hurled to the deep blue sky

By the Lake Spirit's

Open hand.

I wrap a wool scarf tight

Around my neck,

And hurry home,

By the scent of

Hot apple cider and wafers met.

In the fireplace, the Fall's

First embers catch among the sparks

Of smoldering coal.

It's almost Halloween:

You can feel the magic

Thumping in your soul.

             --Linda Brown Holt

                Copyright 2009