Because some of the spirits who haunt this place present themselves clearly though invisible like the scent of flowers in an empty room or a gentle feeling of grace when they have arrived. This is for one of the many friends on here I have never met.

Come see me in autumn when the crops are in and the pies are made.. We'll sit on the porch away from the wind and I will unbraid your hair while you tell me of the arguments at the farmers market this year about who grew their own and who pretended.

Come see me in autumn and we'll eat a soup from the peas now dried that popped fresh and green from the pod in the spring and potatoes and greens from the second crop. I'll read your fortune in your earthy paw and we'll marvel at the diversity of your lifeline.

Come see me in autumn and bring pictures of the kid and stories of course. I know you still wonder at fatherhood and running down the hill too fast and laughing at the wind rushing by and wondering how you'll meet the ground at the bottom of the hill.

Come see me in autumn or at summers end when milk weed seeds blow. And the mice have begun to burrow. I'll pour you a glass of cider new pressed and later one of old and we will drink, drunk under the stars til we laugh at old wounds and cry at the new ones.

Come see me in autumn before all the green has gone but after the moon has grown big and the blue skies of summer have softened and begun to fade. In that month when the woods behind the house will be the color of my old flannel shirt and the deer will already be eying my garden.

Come see me in autumn my new old friend and we'll two old men it on the porch. I'll play guitar and you can make up lyrics in ode to the last firefly who blinks blinks blinks with no one to answer his call and we can pretend that we don't know what he's talking about.