Autumn is you now;
golden-brown leaves in trees
have taken the shape of your hair,
and wiry, worn trunks; your stance.
I hear your voice in the whispering winds
of sunny days and the crackling of the twin bonfires
of your eyes.
The sunset in this Mackerel Sky
has stolen the color of your lips,
and underneath its expanse,
I float down the rivulets
of our wilting foliage.
© 2017 Zoe Antoine-Paul