Fall, our favorite uncle,
Arrives with his warm and steady handshake,
His apple scented aftershave,
His easy, glad-to-see-you smile, and
Holds the door open for that witch,
Our harsh and bitter aunt.
If only he would leave her at home.
If only he would come by himself.
We'd make popcorn and watch football.
We'd stay up all night playing poker and sharing jokes,
We'd build a fire and tell stories
Of the dead who won't stay buried,
And we'd only stay scared till dawn.
But she'll come; she always does.
Following like a loyal dog or a tremendous hangover,
Winter will come.
When she enters, we'll pretend to like her.
She'll toss our hair and pinch our cheeks.
Dressed in bright red and green, she'll grin
(A little too wide for our level of comfort) and
Offer us mints from her purse.
But we won't be charmed for long.
As soon as he leaves the room,
She'll stand before us
With her hands on her hips
And coldly, very coldly, she'll snap at us,
"You've had it too soft for too long.
You're stuck with me now."