Autumn, Remembered

In the quiet between the apples falling
and the last cicada’s hush—
a gold hush, a hush of honey and smoke—
memory stirs,
not with sorrow,
but with the ache of beauty almost held.

Sunlight, slant and amber,
threads through the lattice of branches—
each leaf a stained-glass window,
each shadow a story
told in the hush of late afternoon.

There was a day—
the air crisp as bitten pears,
the sky a blue so deep it seemed to echo—
when laughter scattered with the leaves,
and boots pressed secrets into the soft, forgiving earth.

The wind, restless and wise,
braids the scent of woodsmoke and cider,
carries the hush of distant fields
where pumpkins glow like lanterns
and the world is a hush of gold and rust.

No sorrow here—
only the quiet of remembering,
the hush of beauty gathered in armfuls,
the memory of autumn,
lingering like the taste of apples on the tongue,
sweet, sharp, and gone.