Wadding up beach clothes is mournful and slow.
The persimmons are picked, soon to be ripe.
Orange leaves and new sweaters.
Sharp autumn air and the trace of a smoldering hearth.
With packed stomachs and exultant hearts.
A pleasant layover before traveling to winter.
Families coming together.
As groups and clusters, as masses and messes.
Mornings are dim, and I yawn generously.
Hardcover novels endear themselves to me.
I am all at once, not dejected or quite cheerful.
Cinnamon in everything.