Fifteen years ago, in early November of 2001, I wrote my first and only post-9/11 poem. I thought of it in the car this morning, with the "supermoon" still bright in the sky.

~ Autumn 2001 

I wasn’t ready

for anything else to die

so autumn’s arrival

seemed insensitive.

It did not even dress

mournfully

but threw on flaunting fabrics

of stage-light yellow,

siren red (shameless),

sunset extravaganza orange.

In spite of nature’s impropriety

I found myself

making excuses to get in the car,

taking the highway like a long drink.

Hillsides thick with oak and maple were

enormous mounds of mums—

bright, breathing bouquets

that knew an African proverb:

When Death comes to find you,

may it find you alive.