The Last Breath of Autumn
The In-between of Fall and Frost
It’s that in-between hum —
where the maples still show off their dying bravado,
but the wind’s started whispering
like it knows a secret ending.
The air tastes metallic,
sharp as bitten apple skin.
Leaves crackle underfoot — paper promises
I never mailed,
and I probably wouldn’t now.
A crow rehearses loneliness
on a fence of rusted nails,
its caw a hinge between seasons —
a sound that swings but never settles.
The sunlight thins —
a stretched-out thread pulled through gray fabric.
Even the clouds seem heavier,
pregnant with the first unsaid snow.
I breathe,
and the air bites back.
The trees, stripped of pretense,
raise their bare arms to a sky
too pale to care.
Somewhere between harvest smoke
and frost’s first kiss,
the world exhales —
a long, tired sigh that says,
let go.
About the Creator
SUEDE the poet
English Teacher by Day. Poet by Scarlight. Tattooed Storyteller. Trying to make beauty out of bruises and meaning out of madness. I write at the intersection of faith, psychology, philosophy, and the human condition.
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Comments (2)
Wow, this is beautiful. It perfectly captures that bittersweet pause between autumn and winter.
I love this. It reminds me of a boy in high school who wrote pastoral poetry with vivid images and beautiful unadorned language like this. Thank you for my trip down memory lane.