The Last Inn Before Winter

It won't show up on any maps.
Once September falls, it becomes visible:
a trail of gravel beneath you as you drive,
as if you're hearing it speak your name.

You can smell the smoke in the air
along with wet dead maple leaves.
As they cover the roads, they squeak when walked on.

You'll notice many front porches lit up,
always before they have their dinners,
as if the lights are trying to hold the sunlight on for a bit longer.
Sit and admire them stretching their bony limbs over well-groomed yards.

Keep walking. You'll notice a path you didn't see last month,
leading to that house with all its windows closed.
You know better than to knock,
feeling a cold breeze pass through you,
as if someone is traveling through the trees,
dropping coins of orange from their branches.

A campfire off in the distance,
beating like a heart in the middle of an open field.
The sky is covered with black,
with only a piece of bone hanging as our moon.

There are no clocks here,
just the temperature dropping,
smells of wool sweaters and apple cider going bad.

Travel with little things. You'll find the hotels don't lock their doors,
but they won't take you to the same room twice.

As the frost sets in, you become its guest.
Travel until you feel the burn in your chest from the darkness,
and those front porch lights become faraway stars.

October never passes by you. It's a ghost town of sorts,
with front porch lights shining to lure you in.
Once you're lost in the dark you'll never make it back to the sunshine.