October Is Not a Month. It's a Place You Can Enter.

At the town line, the speed limit drops
and the radio loses the station.
The air smells of woodsmoke
and wet wool.
Your coat is not enough.

Sidewalks are covered
with leaves the color of old blood.
Porch lights come on at five.
A woman carries a paper bag
of apples into her kitchen.
A screen door slams.
A dog barks once.
Then the street is quiet enough
to hear a bonfire
somewhere behind the trees.

Follow the smoke.
It leads to a field
where someone has built a fire
out of broken pallets.
No one is there.
The fire is not for you.
You are warm anyway.

The path through the woods
was not here last month.
It passes a stone wall
and a yew tree
that stays green
while everything else
lets go.
It ends at a house
with one lit window.
Do not knock.
Inside, someone is carving a face
into a pumpkin.
The knife makes a sound
like a page being turned.

Walk back in the dark.
The cold sits on your shoulders
like a coat you forgot you owned.
At the edge of town,
a leaf falls into your hand.
Put it in your pocket.
It will know the way back.