it seems awkward October is when
the days march into a haze,

unaware of how the sultry nights of August
evaporated

and left us with falling leaves, lime lawns,
and adulation of harvest moons

even if drought has murdered every
sprout planted in hopeful April

I keep a big calendar on my breakfast room wall,
and another in the hall

to remind me a freakish frost has not signaled
it's December

and feel blessed to remember, All Hallows' Eve
is not yet here,

for when it comes, the neighborhood ghosts and goblins
will yet knock on my door

expecting treats sans tricks--I'll pass out candy
with a tepid smile

knowing all the while, November
is a sleepless night away,

dragging in another day, colder, when more
living things pause their pulse

and I turn the page on two calendars
to see if it then seems November