Stratosphere

Maples stand red

stained-glass leaves crimson against the blue

although

it doesn't smell like September

not yet

not like crisp mornings and dew-studded leaves

but nature has granted grace

a week of clarity, Indian summer

where the sun rises to illuminate perfectly

the world crisp-edged

like binoculars finally come into focus

it doesn't smell like September

not yet

but soon enough, we sigh