The Eldest of the Seasons

if life is but a dream for the dead

may you visit us during autumn, the eldest of the seasons

letting your fragile bones be exposed to the crisp air of october

letting your fingertips run over the bars of the cemetery gates

rust collecting between the iron hinges, waiting for someone to 

spill the secrets within. autumn, being the goddess she is, will

spread her arms draped with a worn-out sweater, each hole a 

different memory claimed by a different person, and

welcome you into her heaven, permanently in the golden hour

casting mahogany light over the universe. let her 

breathe passion into the dying embers of amber firelight, holding onto

a dream stolen and given 

from her younger sisters' summer wind. give her

your worries, your fears, and let her

collect them like the coins that fall in the bottom of wallets

she will take your burden from you and hang it on her wall

next to the vines she ripped out of a poor soul's heart and

a matte eyeshadow palette left behind in a coffee shop. let her

shower you with glass kisses to treat your summer burns,

physical, psychological, and emotional

she knows the power her younger sister holds and she is the relief team

after the chaos of the hurricane. let her

teach you the forgotten secrets of the universe through her own perspective

telling you stories of her childhood while a 

copper pot of tea brews on her kitchen stove. she knows 

it's not long before she must leave you alone, but she knows

she will revisit you at some point in time. let her

heal you, if only for the briefest of seconds

                              for the quickest of hugs

                              for the cleanest of kisses, let her

grace and forgiveness be the reason

you finally choose to let go.