The old barn shivers in autumn air,
anticipates winter with its weary bones.
Like the crippled old man who lived here before,
it has seen all this — even the coming of new
young residents — and it refuses to hope.
Still, the fire-smoke smell
winds across the yard
and reminds the nose of another world
where the squeaking crank of the apple peeler
spins smiles and the memory of sweet pie.
It is the month when men
pull down their guns and smell them,
while a woman makes hot cocoa
for the children — and the year’s bounty
piles up, asking to be saved.
We love these days for their crisp
taste and long shadows that remind one
that the earth is not flat
and the forest does indeed breathe…
Someone asked, Can there be joy
in autumn’s death? But those who live
know there is, and at dusk
the campfire and the old barn,|
and three geese in the sky sing.
— Anthony Signorelli