were leaves to sense
their fate

come season’s
shift..

would they cling
tighter

to
branch
of a tiring tree,

or just fall like they’d
been set
free?

near as the harsh gust
piercing my
lobes,

sharp as dusk’s bite
on the ridge of
my nose,

red not from
the candy,

cold not
of your stare,

autumn’s come
calling-

its breath in
our hair.