When The Air Tilts Cold

The world exhales in silver.

Leaves hang half-ruined from their stems,

edges crisped like burnt paper,

their color fading to the hush of old embers.

The air smells of endings—

smoke curling from a chimney,

the last sweetness of apples softening in the grass.

Somewhere, a rake scrapes concrete,

a small, rhythmic grief.

The sun slips lower now,

its light thin as lace,

threading through bare branches

and catching on what’s left of gold.

I taste the change before I see it—

iron on the wind,

the cold’s first sharp tongue

licking the back of my throat.

The ground has gone brittle,

a crust over damp earth that yields if pressed,

like skin reluctant to bruise.

Geese drag their voices across the sky,

a chorus of departure fading north to south.

Even the quiet feels heavier,

like a blanket drawn too soon.

Time slows its stride,

each breath a ghost that doesn’t want to leave the body.

And I—standing here with pockets full of acorns,

listening to the world close its windows—

feel the tilt,

the hush before snow,

the whisper of frost rehearsing its name

against the sleeping leaves.