elise.writer

Amber leaves cling
To umber trees reaching
Frayed roots deep into the ground.
They've told you time
And time again, "autumn is the season
Of the dead.
Green leaves rusting, flowers
Dusting over till the pink

Gazing out, Quiet

Is the touch of a sunbeam on my shoulder

The familiar crême shade of

Thursday morning pumpkin spice lattes

Parallels the clouds’

Color, tide’s scampering in and out,

I have come to realize that the most tender thing is not pain, but happiness. 

So random, so elusive, an intangible wisp in the void. 

I can't control how long it stays, before it