autumn mist rises
across the glazen waters
through the aspen grove
Jeff S 3d
I've often soured at the strangest season
in a yellow June;
for heir-apparent Fall's sublimest features
flower when the sun of Summer shades—

I, too, come alive in staves of October
whispers—then, with whiskey cupped—am peaked amid
the Autumn's auburn-stringèd
And each day I was told it would get better. In worn shoes I would walk the long route to school, and dream of all the things I would do. Autumn leaves danced at my feet and the kids on sixteenth street shouted fall songs. I was a lonely kid with a journal and hopes for things my mother always told me I could achieve. I was told to do great things but I was told only the lucky ones make it far enough to see the stars lining up at their feet. I went home on cold nights and sat at my window in search of someone just as lonely as me and I found it in the sky shining down on me. The loneliest star once told me so, I could make it far and before I’d know, it would only get better from here.
A poem I wrote in 8th grade...
sat on a bench
the wind blew strong
played a pipe in the distance
and the sun was somewhere
the wind blew strong
leaf game and wind
I was sitting on the bench
eyes looking at the trees
recalled autumn
recalled former moments
the wind blew strong
leaf game and wind

Sky Aug 9
I’m ready for fall.
I’m ready for
My leather jacket,
which I wear like a second skin;
My fingerless gloves,
somehow both practical and not;
My trusty boots, clomping fearlessly through any weather;
Flannel every day, a timeless pattern;
A bitter breeze balanced by a lemon sun to make the perfect temperature.

I’m ready to watch the leaves turn to flames and dance through the neighborhoods,
I’m ready to smell the cider and pumpkin in every store.
I’m ready to start planning a disguise, to hide from the Hallow’s spirits.

I’m ready for fall,
the best season of all.
Dia3 Aug 7
First there is September
Still warm from the summer
Every now and then, gets cloudier
Saying such as the warm season's over

October is the next in line
Leaves go yellow, along with sunshine
Pumpkins grow, time for a dine
A season for harvest and warm wine

Nowember, is the last of all
Trees go bare, leaves fall
Sun is gone, its getting cold
There you have it; the season Fall
grace Aug 6
Crisp clean cold air
fills my delicate lungs
leaving traces of sweet
cinnamon and sour apples

Soft breeze blows through
my already tangled hair
finding comfort in
my brown locks

Crimson stained skies
kiss goodbye to day
outlining city silhouettes
as it goes

Brown leaves laced in gold
crunch beneath my feet
searching for a way back
to their naked home
Jennifer Aug 5
brown, to red, to a faded auburn
you’re an autumn leaf
therefore i am winter;
i left you behind, to make a new beginning.

although, like winter, i am lonely
i hide myself from the world
hibernating in fear of going outside
but i am starved.

how are you, autumn?
i still admire you from a safe distance,
but sometimes the cold creeps in
and i cry, wishing i could once again dance in your fallen leaves.

scarlet leaves have to be my favourite,
the ones with pointed edges
but a strong, waxy coating;
they rustle along with the rest of the leaves,
yet you can see them a mile off.

i know you don’t think about me
but i’m glad – i don’t want you to get cold.
please never change, only grow.
stay brown, stay red, stay auburn,
stay scarlet.
You were a girl and I won the privilege of watching you grow.
So darling, the porcelain; how trite a description for you.
But it made you smile, always. Even when I didn't put
any inflection in my tone.
It was enough for you that I said it, and only sometimes meant it.

It was Summer, if I remember of any proper, when we met;
or, rather, spoke, for the first time.
Then the Spring where I lost the last line of your beautiful mind.
And that willful fruit bloom from your high hanging branches.
You used to joke, "Don't steal my sap, but lick my wounds."

Arrowheads fletched from your leaves and flew unsoundly,
toward the open eyes of glimmer for those of whom you
allowed near. I caught each one and bled, and with my
oily fingers I drew wilderness and art on your bark.
Spring was meant for you to bloom, my darling.

Maybe you didn't hear, or know. You forgot things sometimes,
like to stretch your arms toward the sun and siphon goodness.
A gentle axe tap to remind you. To make you familiar with,
the pain of the care. The stone was heavy and often deflected.
It's Autumn now. Our favourite time of year. We never got to
make bouquets with your hair.

Winter is coming. You would hate that reference in a poem to you.
Novels are always better, "Except Kubrick!" we would say in unison,
and how you, this time, would always remind me of the night I said
something wittier than the rest of all my life. You cheered up a suicide
because you feared the same loss twice, as all old wounds heal sharply.

How did you do it? Give me laugh lines.
So deep they soak in water and are vibrant.
I don't blame you, all things in nature must wilt.
The markings of calendar, and I know when the rains
wash away the snow and leave blades of grass heavy
you will be there in support, lifting the tiny sprouts with a fingertip.

That they never felt before.
written for my late girlfriend,
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