The Stranger That Knocked at My Door in Autumn

A knock came soft at autumn’s breath,

Between the dusk and twilight’s death.

The wind had stripped the branches bare,

And whispered secrets through the air.

I rose to find a shadowed guest,

No name to give, no place of rest.

His cloak was stitched of falling leaves,

His eyes held storms the silence weaves.

He did not speak, yet all was said,

In silence thick as earth’s own bed.

The hearth grew cold, the fire sighed,

As though it knew what fate implied.

I asked his name, he bowed instead,

His footsteps echoed words unsaid.

A traveler from the withered year,

He bore both sorrow and something near.

The night grew long, the lamps grew dim,

The world seemed poised to follow him.

Yet still he knocked within my chest,

A call to reckon, not to rest.

And when he turned to walk away,

The dawn unlatched the trembling day.

I never knew from whence he came,

But autumn spoke, and I became.

The stranger knocking was not apart,

But autumn’s hand upon my heart.