The heat of a moment

Naive was the day.

Trees stretched their limbs

as a newborn would when released

by August's stifling swaddle.

Autumn jested the air

and pranced up my spine.

The movement of the leaves

carried my eyes along with them

until they stopped at your sole.

No color had ever been so flooded in red.

No autumn had ever seemed so dull.

But as you stood there in front of me

I considered, for the first time,

the possibility of a God

because you were far too perfect

to not be the intentional creation

of some greater being.