presses wet leaves against windows,
batters gray-guttered snow into drains,
beads on the eyeglasses of cabbies and mail carriers,
pelts the round shoulders of the old,
and strafes the last, stalwart blossoms
finally to the sidewalk, never asking
for forgiveness or gratitude.
It never asks even

for acceptance.


Mornings are crisp now

so the hollow pealing of bells

from San Raphael Parish climb

the cemented hills more easily.

Summer’s weighty enclosure of air

shattered a week past

and aggressive city squirrels gnaw

through Jack O’Lanterns, gorging

for what lies ahead.