We step out into the air of autumn,
not dressed quite right because of
course we’re those kind of people,
press chilly hands against each
other’s sides for the tease of it,
slip a moment of joy into the
too-bright noontime,
too-quickly-gone.
The days for speaking to the
dead are coming soon,
our feast with empty places
set at the table, the thin veils
we seek to pierce for one
last word with someone,
one first word we didn’t
get to say.
But before us is the true decline
into death, into darkness, into
everything that must rot before
the buds of spring:
the sudden turning of a leaf
in the air, already turned crisp
and loose, the baby teeth of a
year past its prime falling
out, similarly blood-colored,
similarly built for messy
playing.
I call this my favorite season
despite the fact that every year
I barely survive it,
the fevers, the seizures, the
allergies that send every
illness into overdrive,
because look around you,
look at this world readying itself
to become something else.
Feel how easy it is to ground
in this cool breeze, in the drying grass
around your feet,
or to remain ungrounded, unfettered,
float down with the leaves and lie
still, imagine yourself beneath the
earth, you too
a thing that must rot
for the world to grow.
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