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by R. Gerry Fabian

Autumn Inamorata


She must smell of woodsmoke

from a distant evening fire.

She should be crisp and bracing

with just a wisp of northern breeze.

Her colors should be dried cornstalk,

maple leaf and flaxen amber.

Her voice must hold a tinge

of crisp brown morning grass.

And her kisses

should go beyond immediate

into a dream distance desire

that invites

late October afternoon darkness.

After The Autumnal Equinox Insulation


Late October.

Like the humidity, you have gone.

Now the air has a chilled crispness

that slathers across the initial romance

of short sleeved shirt and shorts.

An inner instinct of survival

recalls socks, jeans and sweatshirts.

The wonderful summer late night light

succumbs to the unseen earth rotation.

As a participant of several failed romances,

I can anticipate the coming winter kisses.

Frost Warnings


In late afternoon,

I embrace the brisk breeze.

It overwhelms my olfactory organs.

I become:

the dry grass pasture,

the wet pond mist,

the leaf crunch forest

until my very essence

melds with the climate change.

The frozen ground is coming

and I must tread lightly.

R. Gerry Fabian is a published poet and novelist. He has published five books of poetry: Parallels, Coming Out Of The Atlantic, Electronic Forecasts, Wildflower Women as well as his poetry baseball book, Ball On The Mound. 

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