Fall is approaching and I’m beginning to autumn,
to laze into days filled with pumpkin and cinnamon,
to shiver in fragile cool crystalline mornings.
I’ve waited all summer for the ripeness of apples,
for the trees to turn copper and crimson and gold,
and now you’re before me. And I’m breathless and eager.
My footfalls on sidewalks are restless and eager
when I run in the mornings with my lungs panting autumn
and the sounds of my heartbeats panning for gold.
I run through the dawn as the sky spreads with cinnamon
and I think of beginnings, the taste of fresh apples,
and the sound of your voice in the stillness of morning.
I like waking up by your side in the morning,
brushing dreams from your skin while our mouths become eager
and we fall into the original temptation of apples.
I lay in your arms and I’m surrounded in autumn
and your lips and your mouth and your breath taste like cinnamon
and we collapse in gasping supernovas of gold.
Being with you is improbably inevitable–a Heart of Gold
calculation of the brownian motion of our single mornings
colliding like succulent candy heart cinnamons
poured, sweet and warm, into hands eager
in a paradise garden of apples.
Desire and knowledge are the magic essence of apples,
an alchemy older than turning lead into gold,
and I am becoming autumned
in the entwining of words, mouths, and bodies each morning
and evening, and I’m astonished how eager
I am for you, for this fall, for these apples, for this season of cinnamon.
In my dreams, I smell the promise of cinnamon.
And I am the picture of gravity, of Newtonian apples,
in the liminal space between branches and earth, eager
in falling, bracing for impact. And I wake to the gold
of dawn, to the smell of coffee, to another luscious morning
falling toward autumn.
And I am eager for the leaves to turn cinnamon,
for our autumning to unfold and blossom like apples
ripening gold, and delicious, and in love through the mornings.