The Door to October

On an ordinary street on an ordinary day,
beneath a sky of dull and colorless gray,
a door appears where no door should be,
with golden light spilling onto the street.

Its frame is tangled in crimson leaves,
its handle is twisted like roots beneath trees,
and from somewhere beyond its painted wood
drifts the smell of cinnamon, warm and good.

You turn the knob. The hinges sigh.
A thousand little lanterns wink inside.
And when you step through, the world slips away,
leaving the dullness of yesterday.

Welcome to October.

The wind tastes of apples and woodsmoke here,
and the clouds wear their silver like crowns.
Rain taps out songs on the rooftops above
while wet leaves dance through the sleepy old towns.
Porch lights awaken before supper is done,
and shadows grow long in the setting sun.
Somewhere, a bonfire crackles and sings,
sending sparks into the sky like firefly wings.

Here, foxes wear waistcoats, and ravens tell tales,
witches ride broomsticks through lavender veils.
The ghosts aren’t so frightening, the monsters are kind,
and the strangest of creatures are welcome to find
a place by the fire, a cup of warm tea,
and a world where they’re finally allowed to be free.

Here, nobody whispers when you grow your claws,
or stares at your horns, or demands a cause.
Wear wings to the market. Let your tail drag the ground.
Dance through the streets with your face painted brown
like a woodland creature, a star, or the moon.
Sing to the pumpkins. They’ll answer you soon.

For October is a kingdom of beautifully strange,
where nobody asks you to shrink or to change.
Where the wild things emerge from their hiding places,
and joy wears a hundred impossible faces.
Where the lonely find others who speak their odd tongue,
and the hearts that felt old remember they’re young.

But wander too far, past the last lantern’s glow,
and you’ll find a black path where the strange mushrooms grow.
It winds through the forest where no birdsong rings,
past a house with no windows and a bell that still swings.
There’s a woman who waits on the porch every night,
with a smile full of secrets and eyes full of light.
She’ll offer you cider and ask you to stay,
but beware if she knows what you dreamed yesterday.

For October has mysteries tucked up its sleeves,
and not everything’s gentle beneath all its leaves.
Some doors lead to wonders, some lead to the past,
and some open worlds never meant to be passed.

Still, I’d follow the lanterns wherever they gleam,
through the rain and the fog and the edge of a dream.
For beyond that first doorway, beyond the unknown,
is a place where the strange need not wander alone.

So if you find a door on a gray afternoon,
with orange light glowing like a harvest moon,
and cinnamon drifting from somewhere inside,
don’t ask who built it. Don’t wonder why.

Just open the door. Let the old world grow dim.

October is waiting.

And there’s room for you in it.