A plastic bag sits in the freshly harvested field
The wind slowly rustling it, but it’s stuck in the stocks.
The leaves are still on the trees
The wind slowly rustling them, but soon they will fall.
The grass green.
The flowers fading.
The sky ever changing.
Sunsets earlier and sunrises later.
The light lessens and the darkness increases.
Blankets. Tea. A good book.
Snuggles with pets and Netflix for cold, rainy days.
Heat turning on AC seldom used.
Final bonfires and fireplaces regularly being lit.
Extra layers, cardigans, flannels, jackets, hoodies.
Sandals away and wool socks rediscovered.
The smell of things fading, decaying.
A season turning slowly then all at once.
Lingering taste of summer on our lips.
Then forgetting it ever existed.
A deep breath in.
A deep breath out.
Now it’s autumn.
Or fall.
Probably A Metaphor 