Autumn is the middle child, of Mother Moon and Father Sun
She is less cold and harsh than her sister Winter
Less feisty and forward than her sister Summer
She is less gentle and kind as her sister Spring
And while she is not physically the only middle child
She shares that title with her fraternal twin Spring
She is the middle of all her family,
Occasionally gentle like Mommy and Spring,
Sometimes feisty like Daddy and Summer,
She can even be harsh, on her bad days, like the eldest child, Winter
Do you see now, why Autumn is different?
Special?
In the middle?
She even goes by Fall, a nickname that Aunt Earth gave her
All those years ago
Before Auntie got sick
And Mommy got sad
Because Daddy made the flowers shun her
And Summer came home to visit later each year
And Winter stayed too long
Because her husband Frost hit her
And Spring came to tend the garden and left
And now Autumn is all but invisible

A whiff of Frost on the greenish grass
As I step out into a cold October morning
The leafs have long been fallen
The air so pure and cold
It hurts my lungs as I walk along houses
Of strangers that I've never seen
The solitude gives me certainty
I let my mind wander
How I love the cold times of the year

On these frosty mornings,
I sip on black coffee
and gaze at the dawning.
Today's a new journey.

I take one more sip,
let the heat warm my digits.
Boots laced for a trip,
toes feeling less frigid.

Crunching blades of grass
sound like porcelain glass,
as shattered, frosty dew
covers the tops of my shoes.

I look back at my footprints,
tracing my chosen path.
And I realize, they're just hints
of the impact one does hath.

In that moment, I decided
that my path was quite misguided.
The pilot of my wanderings
was nothing but rubber and strings!

So I sat on the ground
and untied my laces.
My purpose newfound
with barefooted paces!

Yes, my toes were quite cold,
but I didn't care.
My feet no longer soled,
my mind's fully aware.

Now I choose my own way,
with no feelings of dismay.
My soles are a la carte,
and my soul is full of heart.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
No—
That bard Will has beaten me to it.
Half a league, half a league—
But the Light Brigade gives its thanks
to my Lord Alfred.
I know why the caged bird sings!
Oh wait—
That’s what Maya knows.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.
I’ll take the road less traveled,
but only cause that’s what Robert said.
What’s left for me to write?
Thoughts swirl in my head,
and out through my pen.
Art has taken written form.
I know what I’ll write.
The world will love it.
I will love it.
And I’ll keep writing,
I’ll keep writing till the sidewalk ends—
Really, Shel?
You had to take that one too?
But no matter…
I’ll show you,
someday.

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

This is a Robert Frost poem I forgot to have put this down

Skin made of frost
Hair made of snow
Thought to be lost
But only she knows

Dashes around
Quick as her fox
Never is bound
But destiny knocks

The cold gives life
It pumps her heart
Never caused strife
Love tore her apart

It took her down
Though she was warned
She falls and drowns
When a child is born

And as she melts
Without the cold
She knew she felt
What she had been told

That day his world ended in fire,
Not in ice.
Only when earth was scorched and tired
Air burnt with screaming pyres
Would you wish for this advice:
When it's darkness' time to reap
Hope your world will end in ice,
To make you sleep,
But never twice.