Windswept leaves all around,

Orange, yellow and red,

Starting their metamorphosis into the ground,

Once born from dirt, now dead.

And still, the chill will find no dawn.

Summer’s echo as the days fade,

Before the winter takes the fall.

Not a single jacket at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

 Gridirons of green for football.

And still, the chill will find no dawn.

Using fans for a few more days,

 Natural tans worthy of praise.

Inability to comprehend the fires that warm our face,

Our worst fear is an endless maze.

And still, the chill will find no dawn.

No indoor heat to set,

A true frugal yearning.

The bare branch trees are confused by the sun’s regret.

The world’s slowly burning.

And still, the chill will find no dawn.

What the dying leaves refuse to devise,

Can tell us why the coastal waters rise.

There is plenty of room at Denial Station,

The final stop on the train to desolation.

There is nothing quite like a warm November day,

To warn us that certain hell is well on the way.

And ever still, the chill will find no dawn,

For those who can’t smell sulfur on their lawn.

- Published in Mercy University’s Red Hyacinth, A Journal of Writing & Art, Vol. 8, 2025