everything vanity

there is nothing new under this autumn sun

the same auburn and maize and rust leaves
(robust obscure crayon colors in my box of 96)
thickening over the drape of the catskills
through the main street of
colliersville, new york
on county route 7
where there is a post office, a pizza joint, and a barn selling tires

the same pumpkin festivals,
children with squat gourds covered in glitter and feathers
and pom-pons from the pumpkin decorating booth
next to the prize-winning 1427 pound pumpkin
that is white and green, lopsided, collapsing under its own weight
beneath the smell of cinnamon cider,
fresh doughnuts, chili, and melting ice cream in
fall flavors: pumpkin pie, pecan crunch, sweet cream with apple

how many corn mazes and buttery fudges there are in fall,
autumnal bliss clothed in the first blue jeans of the season,
hooded sweatshirts and favorite sweaters
that smell like the closet and like cedar, like dryer sheets and plastic under-the-bed-boxes

this is not new, not like each morning that gets colder and clearer,
each evening that dwindles into dew and a chill that begs for fireplaces,
the smell of birch smoke and the taste of fleece blankets pulled up to our noses
as we snuggle on hayrides, or in front of bonfires, or at homecoming football games
under bright lights that intrigue moths and junebugs

nothing new under this autumn sun;
but the old faithfuls of small towns in the hills,
and burning leaves like incense,
caramel apples held sacrosanct in the hands of sticky toddlers

steady turn of the seasons, the romantic season we expect
in its sweet-smelling glory;
slow and beautiful self-revelation of this good green earth
and the time of the harvest

here is nourishment
here is plenty for my soul