My Favorite, My Best

It whispered in on coattails of unsuspecting ninety nine.

A week of eighty eights, each dropping one by one.
No single chance for seventy, skipping lithely by.
A single breeze, a lick of chill.
A silent bloom of sudden clouds.
For all its balmy predecessors,
it secreted the call,
"I'm here,
It's Fall."

(Poem by me. If borrowed, please cite.)