has me counting tonight.
My fingertips are raw with grief
knowing that the fading light
eventually leads us to leaving
all this glory behind.
The autumn vagabond has already shown up
in a few limbs of random maples,
stressed by too many storms
that cannot be counted
by the average observer.
Red, yellow, and faded orange
migrate into the leaves,
silently packing up
the remains of wavering heat
in a borrowed valise.
The summer people
will soon close up their shutters
and return to the safety of the city
before sunset extends her arms
and collapses exhausted under the blinking stars.
Darkness does not live in NYC, Boston,
or LA; these cities of twenty-four hour flashing neon.
Tourists arriving to Vermont in the longest days
of fireflies and hay making,
have no idea what they abandon after the switches click off.
Nobody dares look back as they drive away,
caught guilty of nothing,
without a tearful glance
at the natives.
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