Autumn Poem

The wind yells at me
rain strangles trees
and I am bone-chilled
down to memories:
the dead loves
dragging as I walk
clinging to my calves
like foul wet leaves,
once hidden in a joyful
summer sun distraction,
but when the air turns in
and the clouds close in
we pull on our lost souls like
musty scarves and overcoats;
in this dark season
of quick walks home
against the wind
only the sweet warmth
of bare limbs coiling
softly under blankets
offers any peace.