Turn on the porch light To find the morning papers Among scattered leaves
Yellow maples glow Like street lamps on this mid-fall Rainy, wind blown day
Half eaten apples Left by squirrels among the Brightly colored leaves.
My father loved fall Photographing blazing trees That still stand and flare.
Fall’s scent, ripe harvest Of leaves, and flower and grass Gently decaying
Already, before The first frost, Goldfinches have Dimmed their bright feathers
Crops fill the valleys Horizon to horizon Just South of Lodi
Wrapped in morning mist Ripe crops burnished in faint gold Cover the hillside
Fall’s morning mists rise Like a sigh before sleeping, Or emerging fate
August is waning Low rushing clouds, a cool rain Softly whisper “Fall”
A Year in Haiku 