I actually like the rain;
not for itself so much as for
the ripples it makes in my life:
hot chocolate and sweaters and
blankets and armchairs—
they all fall into place 
by the third week of September,
with the patter of water on pavement.
New seasons, they say, are a blessing,
reorienting rhythms of life.
But I feel the nip in the air
and the cold crawling up my leg
even as the rain reminds me of my baptism
and the falling leaves of what I must lay down;
for these, like frost, perform their secret ministries,
curling up inside my heart to defend me 
from the cold and growing dark.

Sept 19