Southern autumn seems to come
One leaf at a time, slow and shy,
As if preparing us subliminally for winter.
In the South so many trees
Stay evergreen, autumn can appear
As a passing fling
That leaves a cleanup problem.
Nothing like the sudden drama
Of the New England year
Where winter bullies past
The radiant days of Indian summer
And leaves trees destitute in hours.
Rather the languid southern autumn
Disassembles summer so disarmingly
That winter’s often able
To sneak in the back door
And spread ice on everything
Before we know it’s here.
