I am autumn
Not the autumn the gloom chokes your airways
And the chill that strokes your hair preemptively.
But rather the last summer sun
Clawing through the clouds
That are begging for rain.
I am the flowers holding onto their last bloom
Trying to escape the withering wilt
I am the leaves that line cobblestone
Piling up
And waiting for childlike joy
To give me purpose
Before I turn to rot.
I am the smell of cinnamon and compost
Swirling between the morning dew.
I am the knowledge
that everything will come to an end
But the comfort
Of feeling that everything will still be okay
After the sun falls asleep.