here is my thinking map/word bank poem:

ODE
It's Fall
in Houghton
crisp weather
pine trees
whispering in air
clouds drift
in a crystal blue
sky.
Inside
the house is warn
the smell of
cinnamon
wafts through
like spice from
caravans along
the Great Silk Road.
My mother is making
apple turnovers.
Tart apples
sugar & spice
flaky crust
and sweet glaze
burst
with the flavors
of Fall
in Houghton.