Fourth Day of Sun (Her Someday Has Come)

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.
She rebelled against her own sense of self, yet
craved for but a whispered breeze of identity;
for the repetition of her seasonal sadness
to be halted by temperate enlightenment: a Someday.

That was when Autumn meant falling out of place with her youth,
whereas Fall would represent her gain of misconstrued autonomy.
She always found herself in these constant confusing juxtapositions
and self-fulfilling prophecies which remained as glass half-empties.
Then, frustrated, she asked the clouds how long August’s rain
would pour until she was soaked in October’s sorrow.
They gusted that she would find hope in the specter
of September and she would claim her joy in a Someday.

It was this first Fall Friday that she witnessed the Sailor of the sky,
her Beacon of sooner acceptance, no mockingbird albatrosses.
On this clear day, she perceived the cascading leaves
as welcomes instead of warnings. She emptied her pockets
of wetted pennies and packed them with newer accomplishments.
She tells the flaking backstreet elms, now, how
this season finally means a beginning instead of her end.
After so long, the disdained, now revered, smell of Fall changes
from dampened branches into her infinite future, her Someday.