So many trees flaring colors
at their raucous retirement party--
yellows and reds and more amidst
the green to dark green of fir, spruce, cedar.
Squall-lines of rain-shower and gust
soon peeling leaves from branches,
leaves drying yellow to brown
under a slanting sun,
scraping across sidewalk and street,
brown sails pushed by colder winds.
Oregonian umbrellas thumping up, hut halos
colliding cause quick-stepping, eyes adjusting.
The touristas are now leaving to go bask
under desert sun. Coast motel and shop owners
and employees pull out rain-gear, soon to stand atop cliffs
watching waves grow large as wallets thin,
the first storms roiling in, blue to indigo blue
washed with grays, whitecaps to closer horizons.
This is my love's favorite month,
her eyes absorbing these many-hued skies,
this softer light, these flaring leaves, mists and rains,
and, soon, this love poem written as she sleeps,
sea eagle wings held close before dawn,
her dreams spooning inside tides
of greens and yellows,
reds and oranges,
blue upon blue,
yes and yes