Dates Of Autumn -

The first date arrives shyly, a whisper at dawn— the air holds its breath, then exhales a cool promise. A single maple, embarrassed by attention, tips one branch into gold.

The sixth date is the quietest: a fog that swallows the hills, a spider’s geometry glazed with dew, the sound of a single acorn hitting the driveway. You remember every person you have ever loved in October, and you forgive them all. dates of autumn

On the tenth date, autumn hands you its keys. The pumpkins are collapsed, the leaves are a brown paste on the curb. You stand at the edge of the yard, breathing the last of the woodsmoke, and you realize: the dates of autumn were not appointments to keep, but thresholds to cross— each one a small permission to let go. The first date arrives shyly, a whisper at

On the seventh date, the trees stand naked without shame. The sun, tired of its own ambition, slides down the horizon by four. You light a candle before dinner because the dark has become a kind of guest. You remember every person you have ever loved

The second date comes with a clatter of dry leaves skating down the asphalt. You wear a sweater you forgot you owned, and the light tilts sideways after three o’clock.

So you turn your collar up. You walk inside. You leave the door unlocked for the winter because you know now: every ending is just a dark room where the next beginning is waiting to be lit.