The eighth date is a funeral and a feast— the last tomatoes, bruised but sweet, the first frost stitching silver across the grass. You take down the summer wreath, hang up the bone-white gourds. Something in you is dying, something else is being born.
On the seventh date, the trees stand naked without shame. The sun, tired of its own ambition, slides down the horizon by four. You light a candle before dinner because the dark has become a kind of guest. dates of autumn
The fourth date is a wild one— the wind tears down the maples’ modesty, shakes the oaks until they rattle their brown secrets. You find a feather caught in the screen door, and the moon is a thumbnail scraped across black paper. The eighth date is a funeral and a
So you turn your collar up. You walk inside. You leave the door unlocked for the winter because you know now: every ending is just a dark room where the next beginning is waiting to be lit. On the seventh date, the trees stand naked without shame
The ninth date: the final hinge before the long cold. You walk through the orchard where nothing is left but a few stubborn crabapples and the memory of wasps. The wind has a new vocabulary— nouns like grief and rest .
The second date comes with a clatter of dry leaves skating down the asphalt. You wear a sweater you forgot you owned, and the light tilts sideways after three o’clock.