This poem will be short, of course, maybe a quick observation, a moment preserved, as in this no-sentence poem by Ezra Pound:

In a Station of the Metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

Or maybe an apostrophe like H. D.'s "The Pool":

The Pool

Are you alive?
I touch you.
You quiver like a sea-fish.
I cover you with my net.
What are you—banded one?

Either way, it's back again, full of football, pumpkins, falling leaves and memories. Here are are some poems, offered for your autumn enjoyment.