Burnt yellow paint smudged across the canvas of the city,
igniting something forgotten,
as the cool air brings an awareness of our lungs
that was not there this morning,
what grows here cannot be measured by harvest,
what comes from fruitfulness has been wrapped in plastic,
we dream of time to get out from under the smoke,
of lurid pumpkin patches, 
of autumn somewhere else,
but the wind here has not yet remembered it is meant to be cruel,
and so nights like these we do not think of the months ahead,
as we walk through amber pools that drip down from tenement windows.

Another Autumn / Evangeline Sellers