A Poem in October

October here is not the October of my youth,

days remain warm even while nights cool,

sun invites final days of outside dining,

children catch last hours of outdoor play.

Grapes, harvested in great trucks, are pressed

and judgements made on the stamp this year's weather,

vines are cut back to trunk, ground tidied for the coming year,

all focus is now on making wine with the year's distinctive vintage.

Olives, coaxed from generations old trees, spill on the ground

to be scooped into burlap bags and quickly pressed for oil,

shared with pickers, family and friends before sale of all excess,

pruned branches burn in fields and scent the air with turf- like smells.

Octobers of my youth were things of color,

an extravaganza of New England fall colors,

New England at its best, a lavish 

showiness of reds, yellows, oranges, fuchsia,

the abandonment of Pilgrim reserve to flaunt a ruckus of color,

whole mountainsides wild with flamboyant spectacle,

the boisterous rave of hills doubled in reflective lakes,

even small ponds mirrored the elaborate abundance of color

to dazzle us before the bare thickets of winter appeared,

fallen leaves filled yards, got pressed to preserve color

against the black and white of winter,

were fingered while lingering in front of winter fires.


Posted for Open Link Monday with Magaly at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads and prompted by Kerry's earlier encouragement to read Dylan Thomas's  Poem in October. 
I took the photo in New Hampshire.