Erica Reid

October dons a floor-length cape

 of rosy crepe

 & hides her face

 in tawny lace.

We all pretend we don’t know who

unties our shoes

or raps our door

& runs before

we fumble with our porch lights. She

egg-yolks the trees

or makes a show

of early snow

to startle naked flowers. Now

November scowls,

chases after

yellow laughter

to try & catch a handful of

her skirts, a glove—

unveil her trick.

She’s much too quick.