Almost everything is okay as the leaves are changing.
I am seeing the season take shape and not
neck-deep in ironic rambling of how
this happens every year.
It does, but it is never the same.

Autumn is the briefest season.
My car has broken down and I will not
be able to drive myself to work come winter.
Fall moves faster still. Red-orange canvas of
trees becoming leafless and I am too entangled
in people. I save my errant gaze for next year,
another season.

It tastes of auburn and cool mornings and smells
like summer in retrospect, as though I never noticed
in full bloom, only after. I have problems focusing on
the surrounding world as it plots and plods.
I go along. I am occupied.
She has changed the color of her hair,
soft brown to blue-black.
She smells of leaves falling, of
cold nights and fires to burn.
She is my favorite season.