Writing

Autumn is a woman with a top hat and golden eyes atop a horse as dark as night.

Autumn is the auburn hills glowing in the light of the harvest moon.

Autumn is the pumpkins and the squash and the nostalgia.

burn the polaroids you took this summer with the 

first lighter you ever bought, back when you were twelve

and needed to feel something that wasn't packaged, artificial

Someday

I will know

who I am 

and

what I want

Galore are the hung fruits.

Their ample flesh and roundness;

their cherub cheeks reddened

from the pinching of a breeze.

They are tapered to branches

dangling perfectly, prostituted

In the crisp embrace of my russet leaf patch, 
a Queen Bee reigns supreme, Her presence unmatched. 
Her saintly swarm rustles me, yet I am blessed, 
for She brings forth the chilly scent of ember rest. 

“You like him”

“No, I don’t” 

“Yes you do”

“What are you talking about”

“Have you seen the way, your eyes look at him” 

“No”

“Have you seen the way your cheeks flush”

“No”

“You like him”