Another autumn, the dogwoods turning first,
their hard berries bright as drops of blood
in the oak woods where a wild fox limped past
just yesterday - a harsher bleeding, and the sound of hounds
came faint as a scent on the wind, barred I had thought
from this wilderness of suburbs. I looked out
my kitchen window this morning and saw a deer,
tame as some neighbor's dog, eating the rhododendrons,
and I listened for the small thunder of shotguns
to stop that beautiful, omnivorous mouth.

The cold will come on fast now. Last week
I emptied the closet of its summer dresses;
draped over my arm they were pale
and insubstantial as last spring's flowers,
and the wool sweaters and skirts I hung in their place
depressed me with their heaviness, their dull, nut colors.
This is the true start of the year; the Jewish calendar
knows it, the school calendar too. maybe that's why
our old dreams come back to taunt us, hanging
before our faces like condensed breath on this chilly air.

Another Autumn