4:17 in October

The last stretch
between autumn and winter,

where fallen leaves fade
into shades of yellow
and burnt caramel,

where the air becomes just cold enough
for a light jacket
or the softness of cashmere.

The fading sunlight
quietly, visibly,
opens its overture.

And I, too,
begin another adventure
in this indecisive season.

Carrying the justice of Libra,
the restless balance
between my two extremes,
my particular way of being—

yet with
the decisiveness of Scorpio.

Just like the reluctant summer
that refuses to leave,

lingering,
clinging to the end of autumn,

until the first snow of winter
finally draws the line.

Leaves fall.

One after another.

In this season
where endings
quietly disguise themselves
as beginnings.

A season of its own.

I walk through the crowded streets
and quietly watch
the melancholy
of seasons crossing paths.

Yet in the quiet vineyards,
I watch another chapter
come to its end.

Everything else remains the same.

People are still busy,

holding steaming Americanos
between their hands,

while the rising warmth
takes me back to childhood—

chimneys breathing
thin ribbons of smoke
into the October sky.

And suddenly,
I fall into a time machine.

Back to that book
with a maple leaf
still pressed between its pages.

Back to 4:17 in the afternoon,
when the sunlight was still warm,

when the smell of dinner
drifted from house to house,

and the fading sun
seemed to wake
the bell of coming home.

“I’m home.”

The words begin to travel
through every street and alley,

carried by the warm,
wistful feeling of autumn.

And everyone on their way home
looks up,

just once,

at the maple tree.

Autumn silence—

only in October.