She walks outside at 3 this afternoon
upon a sidewalk carpeted with leaves,
observing that the winter’s coming soon;
it’s suddenly too cool for T-shirt sleeves.

An apple is reducing in her hand
as she ingests each tart and crispy bit.
The flavor satisfies a mouth demand
she didn’t know until she tasted it.

The foliage is dappled as it dies
and two-toned is the apple that she eats.
The colors flourish under autumn skies
and next the rain will rinse the tired streets.
Tradition may link promises to spring,
but Western fall betokens watering.