October Is Strange, But Strange Is Where I Belong

I found the road to October
behind the abandoned railway station.
It wasn't there yesterday.
On the first cold morning
it appeared between the birches.

I followed it downhill,
while the crows sang their dirge*
for the shedding trees
drenched in crimson and amber,
still holding secrets of summer.

I found myself in a strange place
where the breezes sigh
and the meadows are yawning.
Where purples, pinks and pale oranges
tint the skies.

"The year is dying"—dead leaves whispered
grieving, but for me
the world never seemed
more pulsing with life
than in the slumber of October.

Fog settled in the hollows,
rain showered my face clean,
the path cleared under my feet,
as I walked deeper in the pines
and stones worn by the years.

Mushroom circles marked my way,
their tiny caps turned toward me.
A bell rang beyond the pines—
Wait, there isn't a church nearby!
I still made my way 'round the shimmering pond.

I walked and walked,
crossed a ravine swollen with rain,
until I reached the heart of October
where I was greeted with cold kisses
on my rosy cheeks.

I took a seat on a mossy log
to rest my legs from the hike
when a marginalian rabbit
climbed in my lap
holding a feuillemorte* crown.

I reached out to touch the leaves
when the bell rang twice.
She looked at me, eyes aglow with
warmth and wonder.
Before I even knew it—

leaves crunched between my fingers,
something ancient tingled
under my fingertips.
Dazzling yet crumbling in my hand,
I lifted it and placed it on my head.

The wind stopped on the trails,
birds changed their flights,
November nodded with a sigh
on the other side of the ruddy moon,
and the bell began again in the distance.

That's how I found October
behind the abandoned rails
where nothing was like yesterday,
but I minded not.
I never trusted a world
that promised to stay the same.