By Brian Fanelli

September. Summer’s arc
bends towards fall.

We know this as we slip into shade,
and leaves shake like fingers.

Your head is turned, your gaze
veiled by big black shades.

Where you look, the Appalachians roll and dip,
lush and green beneath wisps of white clouds.

We sip tea and try to stretch the day,
before the sky blazes red and orange at sunset.

Still, you look away,
knowing trees will undress in coming weeks,

flowers will wilt and bend,
surrender to the cool Earth.

For now, you slip your hand over mine,
while we linger in waning sunlight.

Brian Fanelli is the author of two books of poems, Front Man (Big Table Publishing) and All That Remains (Unbound Content). His essays, poetry, and book reviews have been published by The Los Angeles Times, World Literature Today, The Paterson Literary Review, Blue Collar Review, [PANK], The Kentucky Review, and elsewhere. A native of Scranton, Brian is also a contributing editor to Poets’ Quarterly and co-founded The Writers’ Showcase reading series in Scranton, which he still co-hosts. He teaches writing and literature at Lackawanna College. To read more of his work, visit