by Alan Perry

Don’t you mourn summer’s lapse
embedded in fuchsia leaves
that scuttle past you?
Don’t you feel the brush of hair
as wind dances around you, encircling
your body in fall’s pollen?
Naked trees stand firm, skin closing
tightly to repel brutish cold.
You’ve seen the turn that comes
with early sunsets, remember
what was only temporary shade.
Doesn’t it feel like the lover
who leaves you alone, memories piled
at your feet, rake in your hands
trying to collect what’s scattering?
There’s little you can do except
tie the scarf she made for you
tighter against the loss.
Your coat thickens, air fills with flakes,
ground hardens beneath your step,
animals find their shelter.
You know the cycles, recognize
temperatures and barometers of pressure,
understand their liquids when they fall.
You feel the chill of absence,
a tease in tomorrow,
the empty space of I’m leaving now.

Alan Perry is a poet and editor whose debut poetry chapbook, Clerk of the Dead, was released by Main Street Rag Press in 2020. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Tahoma Literary Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Third Wednesday, Schuylkill Valley Journal, Open: Journal of Arts & Letters, River and South Review, Ocotillo Review, ONE ART, and elsewhere. He is a founder and Co-Managing Editor of RockPaperPoem, a Senior Poetry Editor for Typehouse Magazine, and a Best of the Net nominee. Alan holds a BA in English from the University of Minnesota, and he and his wife divide their time between a suburb of Minneapolis, Minnesota and Tucson, Arizona. More at alanperrypoetry.com