October

Jack's October
nearly gone, Wolfe's
revelation, turning leaves,
World Series, dreams--
the Shenandoah brawling
in corner of Virginia's mind,
little boy silent, lonesome(?)
on hilltop gaping into the void,
everyone goes home in
October--or walks away
into golden sunset,
the last sunset before winter--
gray and cold and gone--
gone--like the glint of the autumnal
eye, like it blazes its wink
all over that blue mountain backbone
that we kicked last year all the
way up from
its beginning to its end--
to the high watermark and finally--
I can't even say it--brown and orange
October--what it means--