Autumn is my favourite time of year, she said.

Autumn is my favourite time of year, she said.

With a burst of transcendent colour.
Like a sunset,
The world marks its ending
In shades of flame.

And yet,
The ending isn’t an ending.
There is life buried
In the marrow of that wood.
There is a promise of return
After the cold cleansing,
and frosty quiet
Of a winter’s rest.

Let us revel in this time of change.
The papery leaves pile:
An obscene abundance
Of value spent,
And spent well.
The skeleton trees stand
Firm and strong,
While the dust of their former glory
Gathers at their feet.
The air carries the smoky scent
Of their farewell.

As the sun goes off on further wanderings,
We can find warmth in each other,
Huddling together,
Like our own piles of leaves:
Companionate,
Colorful,
Celebratory.

She slips her hand out of her mitten,
And wraps her fingers in mine:
Saying all this
Without a single word.