September afternoon

it’s harvest time.
the trees are cinnamon bright
and shedding a rainbow carpet
for me to crackle as I walk,
and from their canopy
squirrels chatter
their preoccupation with nuts,
scolding me as I crunch
some perfect specimen.

from every kitchen
along my rust-gold path,
zucchini bread wafts,
perfuming the air
with raisins and nutmeg,
tickling the back of my throat
with the promise
of salted butter
of sweet hardened crusts,
of licking the sticky
off my fingers.

in the distance,
the carousel call
of the last ice cream truck
beckons me onward,
and I hurry to catch it,
even though I never buy—
the childhood wishes
just enough.

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