September First

Not gentle. 

Not pious.

Not comfort. 

Not answers.

Autumn arrives

with sharp, taut

hints of air that

ruin summer plans

while trees begin to

go mad in cinnamon 

and gold because they 

cannot help themselves.

Bodies want to touch

what is absent. Leaves 

yearn for promised land.

It’s the same for the soul, 

alive with unsoftened

longings pressed against 

the chest from inside.

If this hunger consumes

the world, let it.

If it drives you to sneak

away into the mountains, 

let it. Better a burning of 

colors than another gray 

life without a fire.