Mums Were Still in Bloom

October's sign was a morning mist
burnt away by the noon-day sun,
days that warmed as the hours passed,
an ambiguity that gives one pause,
cracks open the cedar chests, and tentatively
pulls out one's winter clothes.
Oh, one cringes at the thought
that sweat shirt carefree tennis weather is done for now,
all boxed and put away
like thoughts of basking on the beach,
or being bare as one may dare in one's back yard,
that two more chilly seasons
need be borne
before those sweaters, hoods and mittens can be doffed,
and shivery winter moments can be tossed.
But still, it was warm, the air so sweet
its taste left smiles upon the tongue.
Those mums outside were bright and yellow,
and full in bloom, and leaves, though turning brown, still stuck like glue upon their trees.
Perhaps this global warming of which they speak
has eased the tilt
to which this planet has been prone,
and the bluster of winter winds will not blow so hard this year,
and maybe we'll even be spared our quotidian of snow.
Well, let's bask in this, these illusions, while we may.
Just close your eyes
and dream that time and space have twisted to our will,
and that the curve and quilt of seasons has been redesigned.
But sooner will Martians, who've been hid away, come visit,
or the sun will go nova, and we'll smoulder.
No. I guess we'll bear with it.
Shut off the air, turn up the heat. 
The white flakes fall, and a crystalline beauty is reconceived:
White trees and glistening streets.