Fall is the oak tree
adorned in stolen sunsets,
yawning out morning stretches
on the block corner.
Shaking, swaying, freeing
sun rays caught in its breadth,
teased by a wind that
does not bite but nips like
a curious pup at faded denim.

Children gather under crimson canopy
hoisting backpacks
full of anticipation.
A hundred times before,
a hundred times more.

Fall is the oak tree--
branches of fearful firsts,
leaves of glowing hearth.