This is a season of bashful trees and cheeky blushes.
The sun soaks me with old light as I think of you
and melt like caramel in sweet apple cider.
I sink into leaves and twigs, down through the earth
and through the burrows of furry fellows ready for sleep.
Down here, I think about searching your eyes when
you aren’t looking, dipping deep in those barrels
and bobbing up for air.
There are no spring blossoms,
but it’s warm, like this tree’s final sweater,
ready to be cast off and laid on the floor.
I shiver, the last thread pulling away…