Autumn Poem by Morgan Michaels

Lord, it's time. Summer was enormous.
Lay your shadow on the sundial, now
and send a chilly wind over the down.

In these last, few, southern days
Urge the grape to ripen on the vine,
that, cured of any sour humor
only sweetness flows into the wine.

Whoever is homeless, now, will keep so.
Whoever's alone will never find his other
but pass the night reading and writing letters
drifting down byways, destinationless
and startling when the leaves chirr.