Whispers Between Seasons

The last crimson leaf

clings to a silent branch—

its breath trembles

as if unsure

whether to fall or stay.

In the distance,

a wind chime sings a colder note.

Smoke curls from a wooden house,

mixing with the scent

of roasted chestnuts and rain.

The sky forgets its warmth—

clouds become thin silk,

and the sun lingers shorter,

hesitant to say goodbye.

Somewhere,

a kettle whispers on the stove,

steam rising like the soul of autumn

leaving quietly,

bowing to the first frost.

And in this in-between—

between color and white,

between farewell and rest—

I stand still,

listening

to the hush of turning time.