When two poets love,
Words start to hang in the air
And lose their meaning.

I write
because I stutter
when I talk
with emotions

trees are changing their robes;
on misty mornings
I am sitting on my porch.
a book  
I've found in a vintage bookstore
at the corner of my street
is lying in my lap

drinking a tea
wrapped into my favorite blanket
and watching my neighbors
carving their pumpkins

smelling the scent
of firewood
while also listening to
Frank Sinatra

autumn, oh autumn
where have you been?