CXCIX: The Seven Days of October: ii

But now I understand what they all meant—

the ones who claimed the Moon of Fall was best.

Its every beam is evidently bent

to make a picture-perfect Autumn nest.

Just now it’s lazy, tipsy on its side,

so that its crescent horns are on a tilt.

The Sun would chew her out, I think, and chide

whatever Fall-spiced drink she’s gone and spilt.

On nights like these, the skin awakes its pores

and opens up to bear the air so chilled.

And while the sleepy Moon looks down and snores,

your own numb face drinks up the drink she's spilled.

October, dear, you are an artist true—

what poses would you like us all to do?