Remembering Fall

Four seasons pass, yet
I yearn for only one.

It is this fraction

When the morning air is as crisp as fallen leaves,
thoughts of cinnamon and apple teasing my lips.
Pumpkins glazed with blank stares
no more, grinning with broken smiles
watching cornstalks dancing with
soft light from the afternoon sky.

It is this fraction

remembering Legends from sleepy towns.
Imagination drifts upon gentle a breeze
and the moon, no longer shy,
stares with lustrous eyes.

It is this fraction

The trees ignite,
red, yellow, orange flames lick the palms
of wooden fingers.
Days smolder to an end,
doused in the deep quilt of dusk.