I am a fall child; I arrived
in October—those rough days
of angles and auburn,
the smell of thick stew,
and the texture of book pages
in light from a wonderfully shrewd
consolidation of afternoon.
So if I'm caught off-guard now
by these humid blue breezes,
the post-rain swelter
of gutter puddles evaporating—
if I am cautious
to discharge wool socks;
to fire my shirt sleeves, roll up pant
cuffs, and go wading
off into the lush quiche
of a muggy summer street festival—
it may be
because each always feels like
the first one I've ever seen,
and I'm dubious.
I still suspect I might be better off
back in the comfortable-
temperatured dark,
before there was even mock-
twilight to speak of:
just me and my heartbeat, listening
to this season, not experiencing it;
instead of believing,
make-believing
I haven't even been born yet.
