The Tenth

Miles beyond January,

Seven blocks to the side of March,

I stand askance on the cobblestone,

Underneath the autumn's arch.

Thirty-one days stand before me,

An orange breeze grows strong,

Black nights blink their eyes at me,

Each one stretching long.

A ladder leads to the roof of wealth,

Above the floor of leaves,

What this is really all about

Depends on what one believes.

A hop, skip and jump from April,

Several light-years from May,

A pumpkin spice drink or two,

Gently invites us to stay.

Wooden shafts frame the windows,

A creaking step echoes in tune,

Kitchen goings-on prepare us for

Going dancing with the half-moon.

Jackets on and fire roaring,

A house forever intimate,

Accessible from anywhere you like,

According to these estimates:

Just a blink away from September

But two winks short of New Year's

A photo display of family shows

The children flashing bunny-ears

Early snow inside these halls

Touches every hand and foot

But not until a harvest thrives;

The grapes and wheat are good.

Is there a better month, I'd ask,

For all these these joys I mention?

'Cause if you'd argue otherwise

I'd question your intention.