Most Importantly, October.

On Tuesday
he tugged the last of the tomatoes
from the garden and by Thursday
it was snowing. There was
something about the way
that storm hit, like somewhere
a wintry dimension exploded
and the remnants dusted here,
white ash fallen from the slow breath
of a faith-waking fate and they were

still lost in Autumn, lost
on that backyard hill with
the creaking trees
and the amber leaves,
battling a curious wrapping,
calming a startled season,
flinching at the white weight
of a storm
come too soon.

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