It is Autumn
The sun on my back; I am turned from it,
Only feeling a small portion of warmth
As I shove my hands deeper into my pockets
And see wisps of my own breath circling around the sky.
A pale blue surrounds me and my brisk steps traverse
Through a blue that was deeper just a short month ago.
I flip a hat onto the top of my head
Pulling it down firmly over my ears.
An institutionalized chill has begun to settle
Into the pavement which I walk,
And I no longer hear the birds sing,
Save for a few whistles here and there.
The trees fade to make way
For brash reds and fierce oranges
For timider greens and pervasive yellows.
And beneath my boots, a distinct crunch echoes,
One that can only be credited to fallen leaves,
Those having run their course.
I, having not yet run my course,
Find beauty in the sight of all these things.
I, young and foolish, refuse to lose my sense of wonder
About matters such as these.
Somehow, they comfort me in the midst of the storm.
It is autumn that makes itself known,
And I hold its luminosity in my heart.