Autumn's first appearance is a chilly wind
One that engulfs your face with kisses and leaves as fast as she arrived
Wines her fingers in your freshly done hair just to undo it
Maybe autumn is the love of my life
I stand at the ready for her next sporadic appearance.

Ripe on the branch,
I’ve become your burden.
Heavy with fullness,
I am now too much—
too much sweetness
beneath my skin;
too much of an ache
for eager fingers to pluck;
for an enticed mouth to bite.
Ripe on the branch,
I’ve always meant to be devoured—
enjoyed; without apology.
Now, with each breeze,
I beg to be set free.

Crisp September breeze
Carries memories
From too many years past.
Feelings unprocessed,
Echoes of uncertainty.

Promises left unkept,
Dreams and hopes
Scattered to the four winds.
And wounds untended,
Deep, ugly, gnarled.

Something in the chill,
Hauled in on the wind,
Makes the hurt return
Like an old fracture
That aches before a storm.

you sit sentinel,
ears tilted toward
the quiet hush of rain
as the world falters,
holding her breath,
listening to your heart
as it painfully breaks.

you can’t go outside.
the colours of the garden
and the field,
even your mousies hide,
waiting for the storm to pass.

a tiny king
with a kingdom
he cannot touch.

oh September,
my September.

it’s that time again where my world is filled with the color orange.
the times I see the world in a vibrant hue through the youthful lenses of my eyes.
I carry the warmest smiles, though at times it’s only superficial.
yet, this year, I chose my color to be grey.
for no particular reason.
I think I’m growing fond of everything in between:
of nothing too scarce or nothing too much.

then I saw you.
you, who is the color orange.
what an odd thing to say.
i don’t like orange.

well, i think you're more of a grey than any other color.
you stand out and, at the same time, you don’t.
I got curious and maybe stared for a little too long.
then I saw it, orange.

oh september,
my september.

hi.
your smile is warm.
what makes you smile?

hi.
your eyes are sweet.
like freshly picked tangerines.

will I ever get the chance to see your world?
even if it’s just a page.
how does the sunset look when it’s reflected in your eyes?
is it lovely?

oh september,
my september.

it’s autumn somewhere.
my favourite season.
it’s such a shame there’s nothing like that in here.
I always long for autumn.

here, it’s always the rainy season, if not summer.
but my heart wonders how autumn feels.
then I saw you, by the window, and ****** that sun for shining too bright.

you, my autumn.
another beginning for my yearly bittersweet melancholy.
that hint of orange in your presence is enough for me to know,
even in my world of greys, my autumn will always come.

oh september,
my september.

everything and everyone is moving.
too quick, too fast, too much.
grey.

yet, you, my orange,
where do you look in world of greys?
what color catches your eyes?
is it pink? is it blue?
what is my hue to you?

oh september,
my september.

time is running out.
will I even get a chance to hear you speak my name across the room?
or will winter come, leaving you, my autumn?

the change is too quick.
you’ll just slip past by this chapter.
still, I want you to linger for a little longer
even if we remain strangers.

oh september,
My September.

there’s something missing in everything that I wrote.
my incomplete words are no better than strangers.
only I could fill in those blanks that you left unwritten.

after all, I was the only one in this love that is unrequited.
the only one who keeps on loving in autumn.
a love that doesn’t exist in your world.

There is not a firm step in Autumn.
The snowfall of bright falling leaves
invites me to dream as I rake
them into blankets for winter’s nursery.

The anger I so often carry in my steps
surrenders to the sleepy hours of shorter days,
the gentle voice of house slippers whispering
across my bedroom floor.

This year of sterile rooms and moans
quietly disappears into the mist
of kinder memories, hot chocolate mornings
that speak you don’t have to hurry now.

So many believe it is a new year that commands
resolutions, new beginnings, but it is when
trees explode into their confetti last hurrah
I begin to feel the first flutter of new wings.

Full moon in Pisces,
aching broken fullness
desperate, hungry fullness.
Alarming.

We’ve been here before, you and I.

Ah, you give yourself away -
a lingering hand,
the curve of the small of my back
alive, electric,
hot beneath hot fingers,
fabric barrier thin and waning,
pressed.

We’ve been here before.

There is supple space,
a secret green bud
within the tangle of autumnal shed
for you for you,
thought dead now glowing
hot and red
tenderly doomed,
a September tomato.

Pluck while it’s still green;
we both agreed
there’s no other way to go
but to seed.