Poem for early November

Many of the things I loved when I was younger, I still love--
split-rail fences,
yellow leaves from the walnut tree coming down in bunches,
and my dog lifting his face in joy to the breeze.

When I was younger, I loved older women;
some of them loved me back,
kissed me,
called me,
let me in their front doors.
I still love the same kind of woman,
it's just that they aren't older anymore.

As October turns to November, and I go out walking past the wooden fences
and beneath the tall, changing trees,
I realize that it's true--
the child is mother to the woman,
and I still love so many of the same things I did when I was young.
There are names that I love to speak,
faces that I look for in a crowd.

When I was younger, I loved older women--
I still love the same kind of woman,
but now,
I am older than she is.
No matter, as long as there are
autumn days like this,
some time to enjoy them,
and that something in her voice that lets me know
that, despite the season,
her door will stay open until I get there.
_______