In crisp, golden veined perfection
We accept your semi-sharp edge
You are not a harbinger of cold
But more a cauterizing cure for summer wounds
Without your tough love we would be blind sided
January would cut deep and quick
Pulling what breath remained into ice
Lungs frozen in mid-sentence
No, dear autumn, you are a rotten balm
Blanketing tender roots with the dead
No wonder we don masks in your beginning
Mourning the loss of those near and dear the day that follows
Morning walks become more brisk
A sweated brow welcomed with relief
From rosy cheeked breezes
A sun that no longer warms
Merely giving light for the coming darkness