Waxing poetical

Walking to Fido,
the warmth of a mug of tea draws me
down the street.
I am struck by the silence of
the rush hour traffic,
clogging the pavement.
Nothing but the pulsing purr of
hundreds of cars lined up,
headed home.

I wrestle my umbrella from the hands of the wind
Avoiding, the puddle that threatens
to soak my socks through the holes
in my Mary Jane shoes.
The cuff of my pants
dips a finger
in a passing puddle
and flicks
a cold drop on my bare ankle.

The push and pull of this bi
polar autumn continues to
confuse the trees.
The Debutante maples
early to the dance,
showing their orange and red too soon
are now browning wallflowers
to the new crop of girls,
sugar maples flaming and bright.
Too cold to stay green,
to warm to let go,
they held on to their leaves
too long
now they rot and fade brown
on the branch.
Between the scorching
drought of the summer and
the sodden, undecided days of the
coming winter,
more tall hickory trees decide that
it must be spring.
Surely that's the better choice.
Their tender shoots of green
know not
the frozen doom that awaits them.
Shivering like new babies,
naked in the frost.

On the post,
the bright white man light
and the descending third
that repeats its electronic call
tell me it's time to
cross the street.
The light changes red to green
the quiet sea of brake lights
becomes the crashing ocean,
rolling waves on the beach
in passing rubber and wet pavement.
I taste exhaust in my mouth
I breathe through my nose to
filter what makes its way
past my vocal chords.

The delicate chill of the
gust of wind
shakes the rain
from the leaves and
brings a shade of pink to my cheeks,
blushing as though a lover
has caressed them and
brought heat,
not chill
to my face.

The bus squeals its arrival,
the pavement turns to bricks,
the awning up ahead tells me that
warmth,
tea,
and the soothing buzz
of quiet conversation and
carefully chosen
eclectic music
are near and
I can lose myself in a
deep booth and
put pen to paper.