Autumn Moving In from the Coast / wendy howe

You come wearing a crinoline
of winds blowing
crisp and cool,

your hair a loose twirl
of sequoia leaves,

your hands scented
with ocean salt and pine.

The high desert
did not expect you
so early.

Your arrival
takes us all by surprise.

The raven drops
a worm from his beak,

the sunflower
some dried seeds
from her jaw,

and I cast my shadow
under your brisk feet.

So walk-in and draw
the arid breath
from my lungs, exchange
your soul for mine.

Monterey woman, Monterey Fall—
the man of this house
needs a sea gypsy

to light the bath candles,
shape the bedsheets,
and most of all, to breathe—
wildly breathe.

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