October

It's always so depressing when October comes and goes,
Passing without a whisper,
Sneaking upon us like children holding toilet paper
Behind prickly, twiggy bushes.

I tried to get your attention the other day
To tell you about how I was feeling about all of this,
But you were busy, it seemed to me, and I was busy, too, I suppose.
Thus, it passed.

Instead, I shuffled through the brown oak leaves that were
Filling up the ditches and overflowing the sidewalks,
Falling from the old pin oak in my father's front yard,
Where grey squirrels bark as acorns drop like hailstones.

Looking down the street, I saw November coming quickly,
And I wished I had bothered to make you listen before it was too late.
But that is the way it goes, I suppose,
In October, as we walk too hastily toward winter, in all the confidence of summer.