The Place Called October

My soul wanders into a place called October,

carrying the memories of past summers,

of a life outgrown,

where whimsical skies whispered childlike promises.

Now the wind blows a harsher truth,

and October reminds me that change is not the enemy.

Roads are painted in leaves of burgundy, gold, and rust,

like memories etched upon my soul.

I follow the road

as clouds stand stacked like suitcases

against an iridescent blue sky,

holding my fears, my tears,

my dreams, my future, my past.

I am no fugitive here.

I am not held captive by the golden leaves

that remind me of the fires through which I was refined

and made pure.

Nor by the burgundy leaves,

which tell of the times I bled

while striving to move, to change,

to survive and adapt.

Nor by the rust-colored remnants of summer,

which whisper that the glory I carry is greater

because I endured the heat,

overcame the trials,

and remained.

I walk into October confident and assured.

I belong here.

Let the scent of cinnamon baptize me in newness,

as the winds of change move all around me,

reshaping the climate in which I must live,

adapt,

grow,

change,

and breathe.

I step into October longing,

breathless with expectation.

Awaiting the harvest

of blessings it holds for me.