90spoems/ocher

Beautiful autumn.
Cashmere coats in store
windows in the coastal
town where I still live.
At last my mouth
will feel the sound
of words like ocher.
Sienna. Russet.
The gesture of hands
sliding beneath coat
collars, turned up
around the neck.
I want to go to the
pumpkin patch, I say.
You mean that lot,
he responds.
But I prefer to see
it as a patch.
Forty-seven.
Accommodating my joy
to the world it is in.
I believe it is time to
do that. Autumn.