O Fall, you cannot come soon enough
Your lesser, younger brother wears
me down. So hot, the heat, so wet
the air — the garden’s overgrown.
Each bare spot molested with weeds,
never leaving well enough alone.
My clothes, they stick; they spare me not
the ardor; no arbor’s offering peace.
Let’s chill the air and slow the pace.
Let’s drop the leaves, reveal the lace
of trees; the branches bare of green,
the weeds o’erlaid with oranges, golds —
the royal raiment of a season’s end.