these seasons are filled with warm, happy things:
flannel shirts, plaid
marching across the fabric in assorted colors

the prospect of apple picking,
their soft, blushed surfaces
as crisp as the air around them

bonfires, rising from the ground
in fleeting fingers of flame
and tendrils of smoke reaching

Jack o' lanterns, mouths agape
leering and grinning,
a mischievous light dancing in their eyes

leaves racing across the ground,
tumbling over one another
in a rush of crunchy sounds and the smell of earth

yet, my mind and heart and soul
are damp and chilly and flat
lacking

come home, my love