It’s a quiet thing, fall,
as the roar and riot of summer fades;
in the hush you can hear yourself think again;
you can see things more softly
in the slanted light of a retiring year.
We put away summer clothes
and summer dreams that turned out to be
out of season, after all,
pulling out sweaters and sweet memories
to insulate us on long nights,
longing nights filled with
wistfulness, wood smoke,
and a tentative peace:
the only kind there is.