Kyrie Siepel

slipping into crispness

a nip of air, a gentle bite on the tip of the nose, a puppy waiting to play. an exhale of warm breath, fogging, just kids pretending to hold a slip of tobacco between two fingers, aching to be cool. a dusting of powdered sugar, softening the crunch of beige-paletted leaves beneath thick soles. fingertips and ears and cheeks, all pinked, a natural blush. the heat a forgotten memory, stickiness giving way to senses that conjure the word crisp; dew drops glazing over into minuscule diamonds. the wind, once craved for relief, now a sharper thing. hand-knitted wool tightened over the face and neck, wondering when the time slipped away from you.