A False Autumn
Today I could swear,
with the cold, dead downpour drizzling away
the humid insouciance of honeysuckle lounging on the vine
and pushing the pretty faces of spring down into the mud,
that if I shut my eyes
to the leaping lilac and wild waving iris
I could almost smell wood smoke and the scent of burning leaves;
I could almost taste the beguiling nostalgia of youth.
Tim Hawkins has lived and traveled widely throughout North America, Southeast Asia and Latin America, where he has worked as a journalist, technical writer, and teacher in international schools. He currently lives in his hometown of Grand Rapids, Michigan. His poems have appeared in a number of publications, most recently in BluePrintReview, The Fib Review, The Flea, The Literary Bohemian, Lucid Rhythms, and Underground Voices, and are forthcoming in 13 Miles from Cleveland, and The Midwest Quarterly.