the song of the fall

you’d hear my footsteps,

beneath the crinkling leaves

you’d smell my scent,

among the rusty scenes

you’d feel me in the

woollen mittens against your cold cheeks,

and,

you’d see me,

underneath the golden hour in the mean.

seasons come and seasons go,

but it is only with me

that you don’t feel so low,

like a mother’s hum to a wailing child

come hither, let me 

carry your worries for a while.

yet, like the coin of two faces,

i cannot stay.

but remember me 

for i will always be,

underneath the golden hour

in the in-between.