young Autumn whispers to me her solemn stories in misted sunrises, in swirling leaf-flakes, and in the crackly smell of wood-smoke. her eyelids fall in early evening and in her yawn, the orangey glow of a sunset, a flickering flame of innocence, lingers in the joy of the moment. she does not know the harsh chill soon to come, she only knows that she is tired and asks me to tuck her in. soon frost will glaze grass, and trees will shiver naked in december snows. but for now, Autumn snuggles and sighs in the warmth of ember-colored trees and steaming tarty cider and in the gentle beams of the doe-eyed moon. she remembers the blissful laughter of the children who played with her, and in dreamy awe, the young lovers strolling down gold, leaf-paved streets, their hands melted together. and with her heart breaking, she closes her eyes and wishes she were human so that she could stay.
and i wish she could, too.