Some of you call it fall 

I only understand this 

from the mouths of those whom are falling 

in love 

But her name is Autumn.

When she arrives you will hush yourself 

to observe her splendor 

rufous; rusty rose 

spilling serene suspense 

out in curls. 

She wears ease, with so much charm

it is no wonder 

the trees, cast off their apples. 

Whatever it means 

to you- her aroma is of home.

And yes she is small 

but in surrender, the leaves rustle when she talks. 

Her gift is serendipity. 

The best is yet to come 

in a series of pumpkin-spice eyes 

looking into yours. 

And all the infinite possibilites of summer 

with all their uncertainty and precariousness 

are replaced. 

The sun no longer needs to shine 

and yes it gets colder

but hold her 

closer