Life is crisp in the fall;
transformative times of leaves and tea
a cozy mess of understanding and love
where blue skies meet orange ents
and wasps formerly flew up mountains.
The greenery seems to take on
a hue of gold and hydromel,
beckoning the old gods to come forth
and sip from her offerings.
Seasonal fruits lose their passion
and brutish cucurbits resurface in troves
eager to potage their way
into hungry city-dweller’s lives.
From the inside of my glass cage,
nothing seems all that different:
the sun’s rays hit me in all the same places
but when the doors open again,
the wind will no longer be warm.