- Category: Writing the New South
And so begins another autumn day.
through bare trees.
Fallen and frosted leaves
crackle beneath boots.
Still air stings cheeks
and is felt in the lungs.
From the house chimney,
a thin column of smoke
lifts into cloudless nitrogen blue.
Ah, if this was not the beginning of
another perfect autumn day
a day of clouds and mists and rain –
seeping, soaking, relentless rain.
How much more perfect would that be?
The land and lakes wish for it.
The creeks and streams weep for it.
And yet it begins another perfect autumn day.