Already, autumn has come to claim the year.
I’m trying to force these rhymes
to illuminate these grey-washed streets
and the ache in my chest at the death of summer.
The slow fade of the childish glee of sun-soaked
days and languid nights, of all the time in the world
to do whatever we please. Autumn heralds crisp winds,
shorter days, the contracting of time and the slowing
of my blood, preparation for a long hibernation.
I love the sparkle of fresh fallen snow, the deep, sweet
comfort of being warm indoors while frost steals over
the world outside, the crack of a fire, and the rest
for my bones, but I long to be alive, and part of me
fears the deep stillness of winter. It fears that I will never
wake up. So I walk these damp fall streets with wistfulness
and joy and not a little bit of dread.