Something about this time of year
makes me want to climb up into
the tree outside your window
and make you believe I’m more
beautiful than its watercolor decay.
I might be able to half-convince you
there’s splotches of color in my mind
that match all this breathtaking death
I could never show on paper but could
certainly tell you about, if you wanted
to sit and listen, and would let me
lounge in your apple-cider smile
and the cinnamon dust of your eyes.
If we could pretend for an afternoon
we’re still children, and sit under a
shifting sky telling stories,
made-up and true, do you think,
quite think, we could turn into those leaves?
That someone could come along
and rake us together, so together,
in a pile of ourselves we couldn’t
tell you from me? Color from color?
Ripping ourselves from trees –
lie with me in these wilting autumn evenings
and let’s dabble in our humanness.