Interior Autumn

It has a gate on either end,

the magical space suspended in honeyed light

swaying in golden slants of sun through crimson and emerald,

needles and leaves drenched in woodsmoke

between September sunshine and November rain,

crisper than apples, indescribable

as pomegranates and vanilla ice cream in a clearing by a lake in the woods, fire burning through the night beneath a canopy of diamond dust.

There’s a cozy corner with a glowing hearth, where whiskey, coffee, and tea are sipped and stories are told, amontillado savored.

Black cats nap in windowsills while ravens perch on chamber doors

Beyond the window, there’s an area for carving pumpkins after scooping the guts out onto a spread of old news in print.

Football is played on screens showing autumn sunshine on the visitors’ side of the stadium.

Cold beer and smoky breath fill the air with youth in its prime.

Chrysanthemums glow from glazed ceramic containers.

The Homecoming Queen promenades through to be crowned in the growing twilight seasoned with cinnamon and nutmeg, maybe a pinch of ginger for your latte.

Cotton sweaters and an extra blanket, a window open during daylight, the smell of the neighbor’s leaves burning in his backyard.

Costumes dreamed into the streets for tricks and treats,

precious pint-sized princesses and fierce fun-sized superheroes ferrying treasure home when porch lights go out

while precocious prizewinners in bars and taverns dirty dance with November, entering when midnight strikes.

Soon, the gate will keep itself,

cast us out and close the month,

while we eat candy and walk with all the saints

to Tuesday,

to cast our ballots.