I can hear the traffic
through my window
and the distant rumble of planes;
I can see the houses close together,
blacktopped driveways,
straggly potted geraniums still swinging
over doorways;
the maple leaves are fading, as expected;
the sky is in the process of darkening
as I write to commemorate this day
when light should equal dark;
I feel an intermittent breeze,
chilly, no longer warm,
that makes me think of sweaters and socks,
galoshes and snow shovels;
I will close the window now
to begin the waiting.

by Mary F. Tomaselli
from Whitestone, Queens, NYC