by Gil Hoy On those windswept weekday mornings, asphalt driveway crusted with snow, my father would get up early, put on his secondhand boots and an old coat, and exit through our front door into the blue hour to get the motor running. That fifteen-year-old station wagon would stall if…
by Amy Southard I know when Autumn arrives, Usually early September here. The corn in my garden is ready for harvest, The silks turning brown. The pumpkins are beginning To turn more orange than green. Leaves are turning yellow, orange and red, Falling to the ground and crunching, As playful…