Last minute poem.

A week or so ago I was going to write a beautiful poem about Autumn sights.

 About warm rum butter afternoons and chilled apple cider nights.

I was going to write a cheeky poem about the season of Fall.

Garish lifesaver colors of red, yellow, and orange but deeply rich like the belle of the ball 

I was going to write a hearty poem about the harvest time.

The cornucopia of a farmer's market square with a busker singing folk songs for a dime.

I was going to write about the end of summer and the start of school.

Reluctant adventurers are wrangled indoors and hope they remember how to be cool.

I was going to write a heart-warming poem about Thanksgiving.

We are grateful for the warmth and plenty of the table, and amazed we're all still living.

I was going to write this poem but my inspiration cooled.

Like dry crusty leaves snowing down from the trees my ideas in the gutter have pooled.

My notebook is as bare as the skeleton trees.

Like a chorus of bamboo wind chimes my thoughts also rattle their knees.

The words were as elusive as the last turkey at 4:30 pm Thanksgiving day.

This meal for the mind is all I could scrounge up. It's all I've got to say.