October cold drips
Into my marrow.
The moon plumply sits
Over fields of corn
Sprinkled in stardust.
The haystacks of summer are neatly
Baled and no longer entice children
To find hidden needles.
I walk with deliberate
Strides between the wooden fence
And pitch-pavement road
To the lowing of guernsey cows.
A kitchen light at the end of the turnoff
Grows brighter and kindles the anticipation
Of gingham curtains, carmeled apples,
And October warmth.