hearth

that first hush of cool air falls over my skin

and i’m falling again


if nostalgia were a tree—

this one is red and green and bare in places

where the leaves have no desire to cling anymore


(i don’t miss you like i did before)


and all of it comes in slow

i hardly noticed the temperature lower itself

ten degrees last night while i was sleeping

and there it is, again, in my memory

rotating with the seasons

and for all that the sun melted away,

this is still frozen here


and i remember:

making three miles out of three blocks,

colors vibrating around us—

branches caught fire as we watched

the beginning of their dying


one of my favorite things about fall is when it gets so cold that the warmth of the hearth is almost impossible to walk away from.