an old writer and his words

In the early morning, beforeI open the blinds, beforethe sun approaches rising,I imagine the chill envelopingeverything outside, Octoberslipping quickly towardNovember, to the possibilityof rolling snake eyes, to snow. Winter always came that way,unannounced, and at leastby me, unwelcomed, thelast of the crimson, flameorange and ochre leavesdragged to the earthand buried ignominiously. But I know when…