Tell You

To tell you

what fall is

if you didn't know

would be the task of a poet,

and even my best words

wouldn't tell you,

really.

I could tell you what it's like

to look up at the hills

that are half orange-red-yellow

a quarter bare brown branches

a quarter green pine trees

that will weather even the three feet snowstorm

that will be here in February.

I could explain the leaves

that scatter across the dirt roads

and that's before I even talk about the different kind of dirt roads

(the tourists

in their beige with 20 million Instagram photos

don't understand the difference

between the winding gravel

and the straight smooth roads

that we just call dirt)

I could say that the leaves curve in ways

that you only could with thin little veins like that

and I'd say how they're red on the edges

and yellow-brown on the inside.

I could talk about the wrapped hay bales

how they look white from far away

but when you're perched on top of one

with your best friend

you can tell that it's muddy too.

I'd talk about how the imperfect pumpkins

are the best of all

the ones that are lumpy rectangles

with dirt coating the bottom

and lopsided tops.

But none of my words could tell you

about this thing

that is my every-day

that I don't think about

but that's there

more than a million words

and a million pictures.

It's about you and how you feel it

and I couldn't say how

but I love fall for the dirt

(roads

on pumpkins

in the hay

and everywhere else)

and all the other imperfections.