UNTITLED
by Vicki Roe (Vicki_Roe@dot.ca.gov)

With breezes soft as whispers, autumn
introduces himself to summer. Warmly
she receives him and lacing their starry
fingers they walk awhile together,
she in a mantle of golden sunlight,
he in an intensifying cloak of colors.

From countryside to village those seasons
entwine, sharing their game. Counting
the boats on the water, the clouds, the leaves
collecting on the ground, the chimneys
with their smokecurl offerings. Counting
the days they have remaining. Numbered

are their days by the very things counted.
As she comes to see more fully his
beauty, with parched lips she begs him
to show himself entirely. She steps back,
becoming less and less herself until
she is gone. Sadly he covers her

with his cloak, realizing the warmth
that had passed on with her. He cries cold
tears of remorse at her leaving. Alone,
the frost grips his heart and his multicolored
wrappings toss to the wind. Crying 
he raises his leafless fingers toward a sun

that has not the heat or the passion
of summer. Come winter! My colors
are fading. My strength is waning. Harvest
is done. Autumn is gone, but is not gone,
for autumn lives in the heart of summer,
and where she is he will surely follow.