The Door in October

You'll realize you're there when the air
is cold enough to see your breath
and the sun slants through the day.
There's no marker for it,
only a door waiting
and smoke from someone's chimney
inviting you inside.

Roads covered in wet fall leaves
absorbing your footprints.
Lights on porches before supper.
Screen doors slamming shut.
Someone's mom calling
their kids inside
(not you).

A campfire somewhere.
You can see the silhouettes
of people
but nothing else,
just the flames.

To your left there's a trail
leading into the forest.
It wasn't there
when it was September.
Further down you can see
a single light on
in a home
you shouldn't enter.

You'll be tempted to.

You can always leave October.
It just reminds you
of where to go home.