The trees are turning their coats inside out,
 yellow, red, brown linings are exposed,
 branch turns to root, and root begins to sleep deep beneath
 the awnings of tall Tulip and Oak trees who are unfolding freely.
 You’re in the light that fractures through the window,
 reviving the Ophelia of our souls,
 warming our rattling, old bones.
 In the air that is briskly cold,
 You are in the harvest with its generous yield,
 in the hearts and the souls of the farmers markets
 with their weatherworn wood and whitewashed shelves.
 You’re in the red rump tomatoes with their green pixie hats,
 in the braids of dried peppers that hang under the eaves,
 in the thick skin of the onion and the potato.
 We smell You in the dirt that is being revealed,
 in the scent of crushed lavender that lines the back roads.
 We feel You in the air, You’re a wandering God,
 kicking the leaves as you go. 
 We see the umber and fawn blades hop and jump as You walk by,
 looking as if little chipmunks skipping down the path,
 sometimes, spinning, in whirl of invisible dust devil.
 You are in the breath of the wind,
 the healing cool air that soothes the soul,
 with the scent of rose petals and  basil leaf.
 You’re in the smell of cold, damp stones
 that line the lanes that are unfolding freely
 their cloaks of red and gold trees for us to see.
 You’re nestled in the crisp leaves that begin to slowly fall,
 like a beautiful woman dropping her robe,
 we stand in awe.