Autumn

Walking under tree canopy,

its leaves as bright and robust as apples.

Rain popping against my umbrella

like popcorn in the pan,

and spilling out like a child’s bubble bath.

The air tastes as sweet as in spring,

chilled like apple juice in the can.

Even the long row of stately houses

nestle together like hens in the snow.

I will be home soon.

Home will smell of oven breath,

of bread, cinnamon, and pumpkin nostalgia.

Maybe there, for awhile, I will forget.

How do I sing of the one I have lost?

the cinder poetry of your name

still soft on my lips.