Fall is a time of transition. Over a season, hot turns to cold. The downpours of monsoon summer and the drizzles of winter sandwich multiple months of … that’s the hard part. This year more than most, it has been hard to define fall. The school year began, and my kids and I adjusted better than ever. But it wasn’t fall yet. Fall began, and my students and I celebrated the comparative comfort of outdoor lessons. Beans and corn persisted. Then the cold-weather plants had trouble starting. The dust grew. Fall turned into waiting. In the waiting, the following three poems also grew.
Puddles out my back window, and Christmas lights reflected from inside.
