It’s that time of year
The light has changed
Ever so slightly
From summer to fall light
The suns brightness less intense

It’s that time of year
The light has changed
From summer to fall light
The air is crisper
The nights cooler

It’s that time of year
The light has changed
From summer to fall light
The heat of summer is leaving
The beauty of fall is coming

Its that time of year
When leaves start to turn
Orange, yellow and red
Dabbling the landscape
Like a fine painting

It’s that time of year
When colors are bright
There is a special shine to everything
Moods are high
The world puts on its best face

so i says to the bear when he woke,



hello,

i will be quiet today.



why, he replies.



my friend has died.



the bear says, then i shall be quiet too.

Winter will soon slip into
spring, all dressed in
green; bouquet nights and
the rebirth of love.
Snakes gliding through
the grass.
But for now, we deal
with ice and snow,
slick roads and cold
hearts.

I was on the bus the
other day.
The driver had a
slippery scowl pasted
on her chubby face.
My mask had inched
down on my nose, and she
yelled, "Put your mask
on or you will be off the bus."

I was already having a terrible day.
My asthma was acting up,
I could hardly breathe, and I had
just put my beloved
dog to sleep.
I miss her, but she slipped
away peacefully.

I rang the bell to get off at
my stop, as I chewed my
gum in passive anger.
I stood up and walked toward
the front of the bus.
The aisle was slick from
the snow and ice.
As I neared the exit door,
I took the gum out of my
mouth, so that I could throw
it away, but things went
horribly awry.

I slipped on a wet
spot, and to catch
myself, I firmly planted
my gum hand on the back
of the driver's head.
She had short hair, but still,
the *** of gum was now
embedded in her golden
locks.
I'm sure a haircut is
her near future.

Since then, I intend
to tread softly and cautiously,
and just maybe,
she does too.

Before sleep I knot a cardboard tag
to my big toe with baling twine.
Sometimes I think of stapling it -
ritual wants a clean edge.

She tolerates my oddities:
a posterboard of errands above the sink,
tea mug with its brown ring I refuse to clean,
I stand too close when the train arrives,
or climb ladders with one hand full.

Last summer a rogue wave flung me under;
I surfaced broken, collarbone split,
came home wrapped and aching.
She kissed the bruise and laughed,
as if I’d slipped the ocean’s grip,
as if the sea had lost its claim.

I call them accidents to sleep easier,
yet I flood the stove with gas,
strike a match, laugh at the plume,
convinced the fire means I’m alive
even as it scorches my hand.

At night she circles the bed,
tugging at my toe tag
as if it could bind me to her,
carrying me into the cabin,
a weight she won’t release.

On the last Friday of each month, the poets gather  
not in one room, but in the hush between screens,
the glow of shared breath and blinking cursors.

They come with verses tucked in sleeves,
with metaphors still warm from the pan,
with hearts half-rhymed and stanzas that ache to be heard.

This month, the theme is Equinox!
balance, breath, the tilt of light.
Some write of harvest moons,
others of lovers crossing hemispheres,
some of grief that splits the day clean as shadow.

One speaks of sugar levels and sunrise.
Another, of church bells and glucose meters.
Someone reads a mirrored poem that turns
at the solstice line and walks back through itself.

There is laughter -
the kind that lifts like foam.
There is silence -
the kind that listens.

And when the last poem lands,
when the final line finds its echo,
they linger,
not to critique,
but to hold the weight of each word
like a mug of something warm.

The meeting ends,
but the poems keep orbiting,
little equinoxes of thought,
balancing dark
and light
in the inbox of the soul.