With the crackle and smoke of our rusted burn-barrel,
I am brought up from my guitar by this new Fall.
Borne from the garden gate by special invitation,
By November’s proposition which entices nostrils, but threatens lungs
I resolve a fall of my own volition,
and the cider on the bar inside agrees with this stubbornness of mine.
On the porch, my little sister
cider of her own in hand and the porch lip underfoot
giggles at the heady swish of leaves and possibility; steps too far back
and still laughing, experiences Fall in her own way.
— Tyler Sheldon