Autumn is...

Autumn in the South is…

a humid, pitiful breeze

dry hot air blowing cool confusion

leaves spoiling from green to brown
and the hearts flutter
at the slightest chill

thin sweaters, ready for anything
short days, darkness coming early
folk songs in the car with the windows down

the calm of falling into routine

hot breath gets mintier each day
trees giving up their everything to prepare
for the next phase of life
and the colors splattered across the ground
like paint flicked on the concrete

fading green cypress

the taste of sweat coating your face
walking on the shady side of the road
rotting fruit and the moldy Halloween decorations up until Christmas 

every change, subtle but meaningful

the smell of scorched roux
in the gumbo pot
cigarettes and sewage as you walk down Canal
old festivals and bad alcohol
street side vendors getting ready to close
pumpkins rotting in fields, waiting to be sold
Spanish moss hanging low over cool water

crickets chirp at sharp winds
ants taking shelter in the blooming meadows
so stubborn

wave a calendar to the sky
and scream “The Equinox was
four days ago!”

As if the leaves would suddenly
turn bright red
and drop to the floor
on command

you could pretend to be
somewhere with real seasons
because autumn in the South is

a faint whisper
a light chill
a soft crunch of leaves, and
the smell of coffee, and
going to the food truck on the corner, but
a flash of blistering heat, yet
the green unripe acorns, until
the subtle cawing of the morning bird, yes,
the calm yet to come.

late November: chill in the mornings, candles and pie in the evening. Finally, the thick sweater. The glare of the street lights. Bright red and yellow litter the ground like, well, litter.

houses, cars, gardens, black, purple, gold. Sno-ball stands get replaced by chicory and hot beignets.

Days that blur together
The smell of the attic
A bike ride around the neighborhood
A reprieve
And cobwebs on every other gate.