“I’m back,” shouts October’s return,
urging summer’s dancing hummers,
to kiss goodbye the sugar-water feeders,
and sweet pollen-laced floral beakers.
“Move on to warmer places,”
October’s chilled words command.
It saddens me to watch them go
to the warmer lands of Mexico.
October forces a Crayola box of blossoms,
in their last stand before a killing frost,
to retire all shades of green:
emerald, spruce, jade, and jungle,
to gaunt tints of bisque and beige;
to reduce once bright and proud blooms
of b’dazzled blue, big dip o’ruby,
violet, and candy apple pink,
to slumps of colorless forms.
In deference to October’s call,
the ash, the maple, and sycamore,
dressed in shades of gold and bronze,
stand straight, delights our eyes,
says to this once eighth month in Rome *
“Hello, again, you bringer of revision.”
Oh October, how you alert me
to life’s sacred changing cycles.
I welcome your arrival.
*In ancient Rome, October, rooted from octo in Latin, was the eighth month of the year, until Julius Caesar expanded the calendar year from 10 months to 12 by adding January and February.