Autumn grips me like 

nostalgia

like a memory of

a past life

I can remember 

vaguely

It’s in the wind’s scent 

sweet aroma of decay, 

smoke and wet earth

potential energy of winter

in each gust

in the bittersweetness of 

righteous, bursting colors

gold forsythia, fiery purple dogwood

jeweled orange sugar Maples that

defy logic—

that are gloriously

dying

in the fleeting spectacle 

of a leaf

an ephemeral display

of surrender

parched souls 

fluttering down 

in the grief 

that it’s too late to

turn back

and hold onto 

days that glitter with 

summer sunshine

A season transitions

Persephone retreats 

to the Underworld

and I focus 

on our magnificent nature,

because of, 

(not in spite of)

stunning, 

imminent death