the few block walk
brimmed with expectancy
and recalled other autumns
to mind
past, but still part
my chest faintly ached
with nostalgia
in the cool apple air
and a grief-like need
to possess 
the saffron mums
and Cinderella pumpkins
on neighboring stoops
filled my throat
the leafy sidewalks,
burnt orange and soft yellow,
kept my course
and pace
as I longed for old falls
mint in memory
with fictitious ease
and for some minutes I lingered
there, pining
until I passed through
and put longing away
and I was awash
again
in present promise
so when I arrived
to meet you, old friend
ordering chai and warm spices,
my heart was already
quite steeped
in October

The earth has yielded its produce; God, our God, blesses us. Psalm 67:6

‘All which I took from thee I did but take,
Not for thy harms,
But just that thou might’st seek it in My arms.
All which thy child’s mistake
Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home:
Rise, clasp My hand, and come!’
from The Hound of Heaven, by Francis Thompson (1859–1907)