Poetry

Illustration of Derpy Tiger and Sussie Bird from K-Pop Demon Hunters by Maia Maganito

Season’s Hand

It is the closing of the hand that held brief, beautiful Summer in its palm. It is the parting with lakes that shone in reflection of our smiles, brightly juxtaposed with our tanned faces; our leather skin. It is the end of wild bare-footed days, bare like the plains of our worry, where, while the sun shone, nothing grew. Even so, Autumn holds a sweet finality. She holds within her our last moments of freedom and bliss. This morning there were newly fallen red leaves on Autumn’s yellowed floor. They had crumpled in and closed on themselves like the hand that held our summer.

Boots Again

This morning I picked a brown shirt instead of my usual blue. In place of my simple, regular shoes, I opted for boots. 

Nature followed suit. 

She erased the green of the leaves when we looked away, substituting it with a reddish-brown hue. She traded the sun for a gentle morning fog. Green grass, too, was gone before long. She sent her deer dancing through the deadened meadow, and the birds all went south to sing their songs. 

Overnight, summer was gone.

Tied Shoes

Autumn stops for a moment, takes a break from her world tour, and ties her shoes in our neighborhood. She laces us up gently, and her beauty sings a ballad of falling leaves and of steps that crunch down the sidewalk–a melody of brisk mornings and frosted windows. Autumn sat on the front steps with me, tied her shoes, and then said she had to leave.

Today’s Postcard

If today were a postcard, its message would be brief: “Flip to the other side.” The reverse would display an orange leaf, emanating the lively chaos of its only fall, fluttering down from the queen of all the aspen trees. The leaf would catch the light just-so, giving it the appearance of a supernova, of a strange, exploding star. It would cradle the radiance of some imaginary sun’s glow between its serrated edges, threatening us all despite its dead-ness. If today were a postcard, the message would be brief: “Fall–this way!” but it wouldn’t really say anything. The postcard would just be a leaf.

Sentries

Trees are the surest sentries. Their only noise is the rustling of leaves, their soft breathing. They guard us here, perpetually, on these deep nights of fall. Stars are strung overhead, and their light flinches, but the trees never falter. Until forever, they stand tall.