​The House of October

​Step through the tall, rusted iron gates

where the daylight softens into quiet amber

and the year finally slows its restless stride.

Here, the air is cold and clean,

tasting of crushed leaves, damp cedar,

and the faint, sweet smoke of distant fires.

​Walk down the long, arching hallway of maples.

Their branches meet high above your head,

a heavy ceiling of burnished copper and gold.

With every step, the dry leaves rustle underfoot

like whispers left behind by the dying summer.

The sun sits low on the horizon now,

casting long, slate-blue shadows

that stretch across the damp grass

to welcome you deeper inside.

​Come up the steps of the weathered porch

and pull the chill evening around your shoulders

like a heavy wool blanket.

Push open the heavy oak door—

it yields without a sound.

​Inside these wide, quiet rooms,

time moves at the pace of falling frost.

The tall windows are framed in velvet and dusk,

looking out over fields where the mist rises early

and settles thick in the hollows of the hills.

A single lamp glows in the corner,

casting a warm, orange circle on the floorboards

where autumn has settled deep into the grain.

​There is no clock ticking on the mantelpiece,

no urgent morning waiting outside the glass.

The wind hums a quiet song against the eaves,

telling you that the harvest is finished,

the frantic work of summer is done,

and the earth is ready for rest.

​Take off your heavy coat and leave it by the door.

Sit close to the hearth where the embers glow red,

rest your tired hands against the cooling stone,

and let the deep, silent season hold you whole.