October

I went to a place called October today.

It breathes as if it has been built anew,

yet as old and as sweet as grandma’s gizzada,

passing through on leaves of fiery red and gold.

Here, the horizon stretches wide with fog,

fixed and still like photos behind a frame.

*

Wood smoke on the air lets you know you’re in.

You know you have been here before,

though you cannot place the road—

laying in grandma’s lap while you listen

to birds that sound like the screech of a swing.

It casts long shadows, whispering memories

of ghosts behind a veil you feel is barely there.

*

Little sun-tinged leaves fall into puddles big and small.

Your summer tunes shift from fast flights

to quiet corners, fingers warm with sugar and cinnamon churros.

A keen wind arrives, and rain falls with the crinkle of chocolate wrappers.

It waits for you to venture where storm clouds hide

and the trees sway in warning.

*

You feel it coming. It shakes you, and you stir.

In a heartbeat, setting the grand turbine turning,

you walk down a path that was absent in September

as a swift gale dims the afternoon light,

veiling the sky in swirling sheets of white.

*

The leaves flutter around you like autumn butterflies.

In the distance, the homes glow like jack-o'-lanterns,

inviting you back before the cloud-padded sky breaks open.

Behind closed doors wait woollen blankets,

a glowing hearth, and the sweetness of home.

Outside, dew gathers on black sunflowers,

and you wait for winter to take its first bite.