clapboard sinks into its
colorlessness. Pale drift-
wood’s banked by leaves.
The year fades with the
frost. The last maples
camouflage where there
were deer tracks, leaves
eddy around the new
apple. Acorns carpet
pewter stones. One patch
of scarlet hangs on, blazes
like a fire into darkness.

Deep into Autumn here in the Northeastern part of the United States, our contributors cultivate a vision of the season.

“Incoming Fall” by Joanna Weston provides a snapshot of a garden in early fall.

“For Solitude’s Sake” by John Grey evokes that certain quality of autumn light that produces conflicting emotions.

“Biophilia” by Michael Estabrook captures a moment of beauty in a backyard garden.

“The Garden of God” by Michael H. Brownstein uses the garden as a metaphor for grief.

“Cauldron” by Ayaz Daryl Nielsen reveals to us the calm magic of sunset.

“Fall in Philadelphia” by Amy Barone delves into nostalgia for a season of the year and a season of life.

This week, all the illustrations are photos by editor Alyce Wilson.

Days burst with time.
Leaves aflame with color.
We trudged through neat piles
toward grownup-hood.
We had all that we wanted.

Youth untouched by earthquakes and aftershocks,
we found shelter from the autumn chill
playing touch football with neighbors.
Unaware we wanted for nothing.

This morning an oil painting beckons—
a gazebo strewn with wispy vines and
landscape of pink blossoms—
draws me to dream, backward and forward.
We want all that we had.

Love of Nature

1
In my wife’s garden darkening at dusk
bats flit soundlessly above azaleas and forsythias.
While in the shadows below
in the final moments of twilight
paper-thin pink morning glories glow.

2
I don’t know what plants are growing
in the shade down beneath the bird feeder
but they’re growing so I haven’t the heart
to clip them or pluck them out or cover them up
with peat moss or mulch.

3
Sitting out on the back deck watching
the sky with all its blue
tumbling down through the branches and leaves
of the trees reaching
all the way to the ground.

4
In the middle of the pinkest bush
a single wine-red rose reflects the sun
something Van Gogh or Monet
would’ve thought to paint especially
with a final spurt of color as a bluebird streaks by.

sun, at last,
showing a little of
that vaporous
red and orange
late October originality,
shadows cut with scissors,
pale light and even paler glitter.
an all-star cast of insect noises,
wind picking up
so trees can toss their tops off –

an emptiness in the heart won’t do –

your absence has these better ways
of explaining itself

a garden golden-brown
where apples pull branches low
to paint grass with wasps

blackberries darken against vivid green
earth turns under my searching spade
worms slide deep against coming frost

pears hang against my hand
ripe soft with scents
that wait for taste

Lighthouse by Vivian Irene Starr

This week’s issue is dedicated to my mother, Vivian Irene Starr, who died this month. She was a nature lover, was kind to animals, was a talented artist, and loved cooking and gardening. Her name meant “Bright peaceful star.”

In “I Try to Forgive Your Absence, Facing the Snake in the Kitchen” by Laurie Klein, the speaker vacillates between compassion and practicality while dealing with pests.

“tiny fur snails” is a haiku by Donald Gaither, capturing a natural moment of transition.

“Violet Jelly” by Lyn Lifshin takes us inside the process of making a fanciful foodstuff.

“Late November” by Lyn Lifshin depicts a fall garden, tenderly “put to bed” by a gardener.

one minute, the sun was out, it was fall.
Geraniums under a quilt last night, a
            blotch of red opening.
On the front step what looked like lint
has small pink claws and feet.
Next the sky was the color of lead. 

Geraniums under a quilt last night
like a child you’ve tucked in
or a body wrapped in the earth under leaves.
In the swirl of sudden snow, what
was left of the headless fur blows west 

Like a child you’ve tucked in
whatever was living, a just born
squirrel I suppose, hardly a living thing
            except for feet.
In fifteen minutes, the light came
back, cars stopped sliding 

Whatever was living. Or just born
must have felt the wild snow was a warning.
I thought of the lover wrapped in dark
cloth and left in the leaves while, not knowing,
I took a ballet class. The geraniums 

are still under a blue quilt this Tuesday.
One minute the sun was out, it was fall

picking the leaves
Monday early in
a cool rain huddled
in wet sweatshirts.
Hours in the grey,
knees and fingers
numb. Our skin
smells of violets
while they soak
in the red pan
overnight till we
boil the green.
Then the pectin
turns them lilac.
We pour them into
glass, amethyst
the sun comes thru
on the window
after snow

tiny fur snails
inching up the branch—
pussy willows