If I were to catch hold of the swoosh
of a particular gust of fall wind

frosted with leaves of red and gold
and icy murmurs
I'd uncover memories in my gusting about
rekindled through pages

in a memory scrapbook
of autumns long forgotten

red woolen sweaters
hair whipping in the wind

the scent of freshly sharpened pencils
and the weight of a half dozen books

chestnut mares with dancing manes
crunching fallen apple confetti

silhouette of the city
dusted with church spires and twinkling lights

at the darkened dinner hour
viewed from the elevated train

a crack from a hissing hickory fire
under a rain-pelted roof

steaming bowls of soup
and mugs of spiced cider

rubber boots
kicking up mounds of scarlet leaves

crows tending piles of butter colored squash
and gilded bales of straw and corn

glowing pumpkins on porches
bearing slanted wicked eyes

and the promise of
discoveries yet to come