Only Autumn
       

I'm alone in the house
when footsteps
sound on the deck.
A knock at the front door
startles me from the page.

It's only autumn.

Acorns plummet
from the lichened branches
high above the roof;
the squirrels rain down
green chips of unripe walnuts.

The trees and hills
everywhere
beg for rain;
the sun burns hot
but briefer each day.

And I grow hollow
with the shift
as the lengthening dark
finds entrance.

Only autumn
with its yellowjacket
vehemence,
its special sting.

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Copyright © 2019 Barbara Swift Brauer All rights reserved
from Rain, Like a Thief
Sixteen Rivers Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission