Chilly hands

close to purple,

arms wrapped tight around my chest

like ribbon on a birthday gift,

pillow case gripped tight in my fist

the fist that I can barely move

as the wind flits past my shoulders,

The golden hour,

Light from every direction,

Surrounding and flowing inside you,

That is the feeling of fall.

The crisp air,

Freezing your lungs,

The first thing you notice is the wind. 

The bitterly cold air hits you like the back of a hand 

Reminding you of the approach of a desolate winter

Falling

like the leaves of the trees

that's what my heart is doing

watching as the days start to blur

no longer looking up at the blue sky

instead

I look up at the classroom ceiling

feeling the weight

Every fall

the trees shake off summer

they stretch and yawn

let go of memories of green

sun

heat

children climbing

skinned knees and scabs forming

scars to show

how many trees were climbed

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

In the prior Autumn, the air smelled of leaf carcasses
and her abundant unused potential.
In efforts to cope she wrote of downpours,
breakup boots, and predicted wasted experiences.

When the air is crisp,

with a chilly breeze,

fall puts a spell on me.

The leaves fall in a wisp,

as an artist weaves-

a portrait of the fiery sea.

Though, it’s not February,

love seeps through the air.

Autumn leaves flutter around my head,

The color popping in the chilly,

Swirling air.

The veins stretch out,

Delicate within the leaves.

They connect,

as fall starts rolling in

and summer slows to a stop

i like to imagine many things, 

everything, nonstop

i imagine the sweet, sweet song of hooting owls after dark

Walking from the end line of summer 

Into the cool, pumpkin, damp filled air 

to which is called fall 

The beautiful sound of leafs crumpling 

fall fall fall 

oh how so near you are!!

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,