Golden Hours

The air turns soft with threads of amber light,

A hush that slips through trees begins to thin,

And morning mist gives way to clearer sight.

The maples wear a coat of burning skin,

While oaks hold fast in rust and wine-stained gold,

And apples ripen where the winds begin.

The sun sits lower, mellowing the bold

Into a gentler touch on cheeks and stones,

Its radiance a warmth that does not scold.

Children kick leaves and mimic distant moans

Of crows above, who trace the turning time

With lazy arcs and melancholic tones.

The world’s tuned low, like dusk caught mid-chime,

A rhythm slow enough to breathe with ease

October moves in thoughtful pantomime.

Pumpkins swell in fields, the corn husks tease,

Stacked hay in rows beneath the scarecrow’s grin,

The scent of soil rides cool upon the breeze.

Smoke curls from chimneys, memories begin

To stir of cider sweet and sweaters worn,

Of flannel wrapped like armor on the skin.

No rush remains, no cause to feel forlorn

Fall teaches us to love what must let go,

To treasure every evening, softly torn.

We walk through woods where light comes down low,

Each footstep cushioned by the dying flame

Of leaves below in muted, rustling flow.

The squirrels leap fast, their movements never tame,

Stocking away each nut like sacred gold,

Prepared for frost, yet playing all the same.

A fire pit glows, the stories being told

Are stitched with laughter, marshmallow and spark,

The shadows near but never truly cold.

Lanterns rise and dot the early dark,

While scarves like banners wrap around the night,

And porch lights bloom like stars in quiet arcs.

The spice of clove, of nutmeg, brings delight,

A kitchen hums with cinnamon and steam,

The oven’s glow a comfort, rich and bright.

The season feels like memory in dream

Not sad, but tender in its soft retreat,

A final warmth within the year’s long scheme.

Hikes end with boots stacked by the door, complete

with stories stuck in socks and trails in minds,

A hunger rising gentle, not discreet.

We gather near with hands in wool confined,

The silence shared deeper than words could be

In stillness now, the truest peace we find.

The world has slowed to let our hearts roam free,

To sit, to taste, to watch the embered hill

Glow like a hearth inside a chestnut tree.

The geese pass over, drawn by some old will

That calls them home through air turned rich and wide,

Their music soft, their motion calm and still.

Though bare limbs come, there’s nothing here to hide

Fall does not fear the end, nor mask the grace

Of quiet days where golden truths abide.