Dear October,
What can I say of you that has not already been said,
in words far more eloquent than mine could ever be?
I could tell of your myriad leaves,
setting the trees afire with scarlet and gold,
and falling around me in the autumn wind,
while I stand transfixed.
But haven't the poets exhausted that image,
captivating as it may be?
I could tell of your whispering wind,
carrying the leaves far from home,
and leaving me to wonder where they go;
sweeping away the memories of years without rain,
and leaving me with nothing but the cold.
But haven't the writers written of that chill before,
enthralling as it is?
I could tell of that indescribable feeling,
That piercing sadness, that rush of adrenaline,
That foreboding of change that is without and within me,
Like fire racing through my veins:
The icy touch of autumn.
But hasn't everyone felt that sensation,
Intoxicating as it is, and will always be?
Therefore, there is little I can say.
So I must stand here and wait in silence
as you pass away and are gone.
Love,
Stephanie
