Harvest
In black, the scent of Jasmine. Last night, the sunset dipped the world in gold. Orion stretched in the sky early this morning. Diamonds on jet. The leaves are falling toward incandescence; green giving way to fire’s blush. The air is a bright cold kiss. Magic building in the hours, pulsing like a heart — pumping woodsmoke and spice. Old rhythms, now. The light, gone oblique. Pumpkins.
I am as solitary as a dream, on October’s first.