The Poetic Change of Autumn

 September. 

A pivotal month. 

A transfer to a different season. 

The hot breath of wind fades into a cold quiet. 

The leaves take their cue and fall, 

entranced at this new turn of events. 

The flowers fade and bow. 

Coldness seeps in at night. 

This happens every year. 

Every late summer I grab at the light, 

wanting to let it soak and leave me with the warmth. 

But it dwindles. 

I wake up early to feel the sun

becoming colder by the day.

I run outside and spend my life

In the dirt and moss and trees.

To catch this time of beauty, 

I stop looking at Hurry and Worry.

I turn my back upon those two.

I revel in grace.

Up alone in my tree

I read, until shadows hide the words.

I shiver and jump down.

The key has been handed over 

to the cold.