Fall is a woman with straw in her hair and bells on her heels.
A husky ginger bitch
who laughs too loud
smiles with teeth.
Her damp odors are muted by familiar wafts.
It's possible she's smoking a clove cigarette
or slugging some bourbon.
Underneath glossy reds, she's got pumpkin seed toenails
and oatmeal lips, dotted with freckles.
Her eyelashes are spun by silkworms and she's got a
big ol' rump
that surges the forest's pulse.
Crow and Owl regard her wily smile as she ambles through wooded patchwork.
She's got granny panties on and dirt on her legs and she's about to detonate the trees.
They begin to hum into the electric current of the underground.
a trigger is snuggled in between the woman's oat-bran drawers and sneezeweed skirt.
She walks along through September and October.
She's like a patchouli dust cloud.
She greets creatures that come to greet their fate.
Then with a greedy smile
the button with a
The woods ooze blood red and orange
within a calendar month.