This poem has been published on the November issue of my school’s magazine, ‘Bou Zi’, of which I am a regular contributor.
Fall, she walks
Fall sleeps on
rusting park benches
with one boot off,
legs outstretched
she wakes up with
apricot sunburnt cheeks,
and a lopsided smile that
peeks from
behind a woolen scarf
Fall watches
the steam place its nuzzle
on hidden
coffee-shop windows,
and if the wind blows
the right way,
you’ll catch a stray whiff
of her cinnamon
scent
and if you can’t find her,
she’ll probably be
carving out
golden leaves
on carbon
tree trunks
that melt like honey
to the ground.
And slowly,
Fall takes off on
her tiptoes
leaving behind a trail
of snow
and a little desire
for fire.
Anthea