Between Seasons

The last Silver Maple leaf falls,


golden and reluctant,


spiraling into silence.

Air

crisp,

thinning—


not with wind,


but with the stillness of change.

Fields, once rich and thick with red,


bow under a lace of silver,


each blade remembering.

Somewhere, an owl cracks the silence,


its rhythmic call

claiming land,

protecting.

The sun sinks faster now,


dragging gold over bare branches


like fingers holding warmth


unwilling to let go.

From chimneys, cedar smoke climbs—

scented with sweetness

and quiet ache.


of something ending.

You stand, breath fogging,


heart heavy with unsaid goodbyes,


and know


that tomorrow


the ground will not remember

what it once cradled.