It is spring in New England, but who says we have to be seasonal? Poet Keith Tornheim brings us back to those autumnal days and nights.

Autumn in New England

Poet Keith Tornheim,

The trees undress for winter’s night,

orange remnants scattered on the ground.

The sun drifts low across the sky,

sleeping late and rising more reluctantly.

Bears eat their last and seek their caves,

while birds fly south, at least the smarter ones;

the rest hunker down as best they can

to await the coming snow.

I, too, would rather not venture out

and run the gauntlet of these colder days,

the clubs of wind and stinging sleet,

but curl up safe at home and read

beneath an artificial sun.

―Keith Tornheim

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