False Fall

I imagine autumn the way the storytellers promised—

air so crisp it cracks when you breathe,

smoke curling from chimneys,

the scent of apples and cold earth.

Leaves letting go with quiet grace,

one by one,

drifting down to rest on jacketed shoulders

that don’t break a sweat.

The light turns honey-thin,

and the world exhales—

a soft pause

between what was green

and what’s about to sleep.

And then—there’s Texas.

The forecast dips to seventy-nine,

and suddenly, Mariah Carey sings “It’s time.”

Infinity scarves crawl out of storage,

boots stomp onto blistered sidewalks,

and we prance outside in our sweaters

like we’ve earned it.

Somewhere north, leaves are burning gold.

Here, the only thing burning

is the steering wheel.

The air smells faintly of barbecue and denial.

Still, we insist—it’s fall.

Pumpkin spice hits the shelves,

and so does the heat index: ninety-three.

Families flock to the pumpkin patch,

posing beside haybales,

squinting through the glare.

Kids smile through heatstroke

as mothers call, “Smile like it’s chilly!”

and the sun roasts their flannel dreams.

My fall candle battles the ceiling fan,

smelling distinctly of defeat and nutmeg.

Sweat rolls where sweaters dream to be.

I sip iced coffee

and pretend it’s cider.

A single breeze stumbles through town—

we gasp,

we post,

we declare, “You can feel fall coming!”

(It was probably just a passing truck.)

By noon,

jackets hang limp around waists,

makeup surrenders to humidity,

and the sun—still cocky as August—

shines down, unbothered,

watching us pretend.

Because here,

autumn isn’t a season—

it’s a state of imagination.

And we, loyal dreamers in denim and suede,

will sweat our way through every golden illusion,

grinning for the camera,

believing—just for a moment—

that seventy-nine is frost.