For Autumn, when the winter whispered low
its forgotten secrets crisply in her ear,
before it bit her skin or sprinkled snow,
she knew the time to leave was drawing near.
Her tinder heart aflame could not detach
itself from threads unraveled from the seams.
Her love, once green, had crackled gray like ash;
his love, unseen, had only been a dream.
A wind then swirled the forest with a hush—
a distant flock of geese, a Hunter’s Moon,
a blitz of heat and lust, an ancient rush.
A ripping tide of change was coming soon.
Seasons change but hope can still sustain
if beating hearts make memories from pain.
-gj