It’s full autumn today, finally, and I’m thinking
about the time I was 19 and new at this whole
on my own thing, a day where all the crayons
in the box were burnt orange, sienna, raw umber
and night fell on the Big Apple and I was alone
with my walk (that was still a walk then), and the wisps
of wind under the leaves straining to be heard
under the drum-clacks of the subway—

I was still new, and you were much newer
and sometimes I think about that, this whole time thing—
all the clocks with their arms and alarm bells
making awkward ticks and tocks toward winter:
you had such little hands then, hands I would have
held in mine and walked to the swings with,
and everything would have been different

but you caught me at the end of apple season
while I still have leaf-piles to jump in
so get it now while you can—
take me by the armful, dive into me,
press me into your pages—
scatter all my carefully laid plans

I’m sorry all the farmers’ markets are closing soon,
there’s not much time for all I wanted to give you
as these colors slip into darkness
and the gleaners have stolen the harvest
I was waiting all along to offer
to you

© Psyche Marks 2017

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