I worried beetles
crept in the mulch
& feared the falling leaves
red fire.

I wanted more from summer
than gourds & pumkins,
stubbled fields & indian corn.

I wasted myself dreaming
of warm nights,
of crickets singing to the stars.

Until the darkness of change
passed & instead of tears
for faded green, I rejoiced
in yellow;
looked forward to black fingers,
frosted white,
waving in the bitter wind.