A ripe Saturday afternoon,
perfect in it’s postcard beauty,
dead leaves shining in the warm-enough-to-wear-a-sweater sunlight.
The wind blows just enough to prove
that wind can still blow on a day like this,
wile the coats and hats we left
on the back seat of the car are forgotten, a passing thought lost
to the momentary respite of a fall
that can’t make up it’s mind.

Under these conditions, all things
are love and life and beauty. Under
these conditions, Everything is a miracle
if you squint your eyes, just right.