The autumn grieves in muted colours
of life in warmth, stuck in twilight's hold.
Wolves stay away from the edges of the city
and howl in the cold.
It was spring the last time I felt real,
and now it has been half a year moving in phases, through to tomorrow.
I love the autumn, the fall of summer's empire,
the way I can be cold without trying, only warm if I want to.
All the hype about mittens and toques and sweaters gives overrated expectations,
because a short while ago autumn was the death of life, and winter its mourning
because nothing grows.
Is life seasonal? No, its always,
and I will always love you,
love the little ways you live.
The hermit in me is tired and malnourished and I am grieving for memories that feel too good.
Because life is swell.