A poem by Glen Enloe.

Autumn’s rumor

is spread in turning trees,

revealed like stains

on hems

of far Missouri hills.

 

Few search

or care or know

your soft fruit—

few dare taste

tart sweetness—

trouble

to spoon aside

infestations

of seeds.

 

Like seasons,

they go to waste—

not savored,

unused, unappreciated—

burled relatives,

overripe pawpaws

past remembering,

lingering

as age spots of early fog

on winter’s

stern harvest.