Before the Ground Hardens

The air grows thinner,

a half-forgotten note caught

between breath and frost.

Leaves no longer fall —

they drift like tired thoughts,

soft against the hush of everything slowing down.

I walk through it —

this almost-winter,

where warmth is rumor and light leans low,

where each step sounds like remembering.

The sky tastes metallic.

Wind licks at my sleeves,

bringing that clean ache

only November knows —

like the scent of iron before snow,

like goodbye wrapped in gold dust.

Even the birds hesitate,

their wings slicing through

the edge of change.

Some stay too long.

Some know when to leave.

The ground is still breathing,

but quieter now —

its pulse buried

beneath damp bark and roots

that practice patience.

I close my eyes and feel it —

the world tucking itself in.

The sun, slower to rise.

The day, learning to end earlier.

And me,

learning how to hold on

without clinging.

Because even this stillness

has motion —

and even endings

come dressed

like beginnings