The First Day of Autumn
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Shall we mourn the departed or dance on their graves
How can the embers of this death burn so brightly against this crisp air
These fresh hopes ignited by a season sprung by the beginning of the end
How is it that summer still appears to us while winter winds cross our paths
That the sweetest sugars readily bleed to our outsides
Creating the burgundies and burnt oranges and sable brown hues
The froths of textiles wound ‘round our bodices
Clasped at the waist and worn at the wrists
An attempted armor against the inevitable
As if we were each singular brushstrokes dappled by the hands of van Gogh
Caught in the swirling mists of city haze
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