When the Porch Lights Blur Into Stars

You will never be able to find directions to here.
The road unfolds itself
once September closes
its last chapter,
leading down a gravel road that sings
of a town you half know.

The air smells of campfires and dying leaves.
Maple leaves cover every inch of ground.
As they fall they create a paper texture on the road
like something you would hear when speaking to someone privately.

You'll see many porches on your left lit up before dinner,
many of which want you to stop by and stay the night.
Sit out there and enjoy how the night falls upon these neat little lawns.

Take the road that wasn't there last month.
You know which one I'm talking about.
The road that goes by that house with all its windows closed.
Don't try to go inside that house; you know better than to.
You'll hear the wind blow through the trees,
dropping what appears to be gold coins from the leaves.

You'll see a campfire burning in the middle of nowhere,
as if it's the only thing keeping the night alive.
The sky has been painted with ink
and has one small piece of bone hanging from it.

There is no time here, only temperature.
It's cold outside, and your sweater will let you know.

Don't bring too much with you.
All of the rooms at these inns have no lock,
but each time you enter you're never in the same room.

Once you've entered October you have become part of the cold.
Travel as far as you can until the darkness takes over
and you can't see any more porch lights.

October will never feel like you are just traveling through.
It feels like you have entered a town filled with ghosts and sunlight.