Two Seasons and Part of a Third

I know a summer
when I see one
slinking out the
back door
a few-days-a-year
lover
not wishing this
walk of shame
witnessed by any of
my more elderly
neighbours.

I know an autumn
when I see one
too
an angry artist
an old soak
messing in a way beyond
playfulness with miserable
colours and letting dry
ice stage a coup
in the studio
fogging everywhere
mussing whatever
view
there might have been.

Through that fog
I can't see winter

yet.
So I don't know

late fall

autumn comes to me

as ground stuffed

with bones of leaves

and small bodies of

muddy water

that dogs lick

when they're not

trailing each other

around