Autumn arrives on the other end of a tracking shot
offering a wide view of a scene
frosted in amber and highlighted with imperial red.
Peach and bittersweet sunsets darken to mulberry on the horizon,
and the nighttime cool mutes stargazers straining to extend
the dissipating moments from a summer they
neither wanted nor enjoyed.
The rust under everything promises the seasonal death
to which we have all grown accustomed,
but that we still ignore, insisting that eleven weekends from now,
things will be different.
(That they always would have been anyway seems to matter little.)
Watching the top branches of trees sway in the breeze, leaves
stretching in vain towards an indifferent sun, a curious optimism
persists, and I think of how we should share fall,
and how easily we could deviate from what we usually
do. “One of these years,” we promise ourselves, and time
stacks up to challenge us.
The significance of the harvest points to all our tomorrows,
but we measure only in the slightest of divisions.
I can always find my way in memory. The map was in a kiss
forged under autumn stars, and it was meant to be seen
by only two people. We read it alone, silent monarchs tracing their fingers
around an ambient kingdom never meant to end, just expand.