The last days of summer
were scattered—
green buckets spilling water,
thunderclouds and iron skies.
The sun, a ghost,
floats through dark corridors
more than twice a day.
The memories of its red claws,
now frail and bent.
I don’t miss the heat.
I miss the sun’s bright heart,
nursing me with joy.
There’s a sort of red in the air
carrying my radiance,
smells of cinnamon—
The crisp leaves are here!
Orange and crunchy
like toasted crackers
strewn across brittle grass.
What more is there to ask?
Fall’s russet arms treat me well;
every year, I’m a spider
weaving my webs of love
for the rusted branches.
The sun worries no more;
it wears a hazel veil.
I’m stuffed, a pumpkin
quietly humming.
The trees blaze
in hues of bronze.
9/22/25
