Autumn; Winter waits every year to see her,
His persona attracted to her warmed temper.
But she arrives before him, often not by much,
And, exits on winged Demeter’s pumpkin patch.
His chivalric quest, epic as that of Sir Gawayne,
He plies her with gifts near the Etruscan plain,
They vanish like ice cubes in late monsoon rain.
He pines in the pines staring at her exiting flora,
Quizzing each falling leaf in his sub-zeroed aura,
Asking, “she loves me…she loves me not…she loves…”
As they smile into snowflakes on his crystal gloves.
He peeks into farmer’s barns scouring their stores,
For gourds, gold trinkets for her cornucopia shoes.
He dreams of times when they could be together,
Cozying on those cold melting nights by the fire.
But alas she always slips away before he arrives,
Her scepter, the key opening seasonal doorways;
Unlocks Winter solstice after she takes her leave.