Fall is not

a journey five meters

to your backyard

with knee-high boots

trampling ruthlessly on the leaves,

then tossing them in the air

with an airy smile-

heavy painted eyelids

half-moon eyes crinkling

head tilting

hair rippling, like ink

a dreamy expression-

all for the sake of the camera.

Fall is

summer’s final words

trapped underneath

mountain upon mountain

of fallen leaves

struggling to find release

But no one bothers

to listen to its plea,

for the pumpkin patches

and the scalding apple cider

the heavy scarves

and the bundles of candle lighters

seem to be what is of most value

to us.