October

It’s the rustle before the stillness

Animals foraging, leaves falling

Footsteps crunching.

There is death here.

But it is beautiful in its decay.

Slow showers of reds, orange, and yellow coat the ground.

The crisp stillness slices past

Leaving cheeks crimson and lungs empty.

There is life here. It’s not still. Not yet.

Nor is it quiet. A creaky gate shifts in the wind.

Groans as it opens, welcoming all in.

Candles line the fences, the wind hums,

The flames rustle.

Soon, the dead will rest for another year.

But now they murmur.

Soon, the children will come.

With empty faded pillowcases

or plastic pumpkins.

Then it will go still.

The gate will close.

The candles will go out.

But for now, there is life here.