Pumpkin Rains

The air smells of rain
and cigarettes,
and exhaust.

But the breeze blows
and stirs the leaves
in the trees.

Orange as fire,
Red as blood,
yellow as a taxi cab;
they find themselves
plucked from their branches
by nature’s breathy wind.

Pumpkins in multitude and
sweater weather
means comfort to my wayward soul.

And I relish next morning
before it comes even as
my windshield wipers squeal away
the droplets of clouds’
sweet dampness.