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.