The clouds stroll in;

they strengthen the ice blue sky.

 The orange and red

pop against  puffs of heavy rain.

 

Sweaters unearthed from cobwebs and dust.

Warm maroons and toasty browns

seize my figure as I prance

through crunchy leaves.

The trees are bare,

but beautiful.

 

The chill that sweeps across my cheeks

reassures me that you are here.

You leave the sweetness of apple

and cinnamon in the air.

 

Plump, orange spheres grace the green lace

that intertwines chambers of my heart.

I pick them, one by one,

tenderly from the vine.

I carve my soul into them,

arranging them on the stoop.

 

White flakes infect your cold breeze;

our time together grows short.

The trees are no longer bare.

The ground has lost its color.