This autumn’s different from the rest, - more golden-mouthed -
I’m charting out my life with zest from north to south.
The sun’s dispersed in orange leaves and cloaked the ground
I smile to myself as if - I’m lost and found.
The days are growing short, - you’ll soon arrive here.
I wish that you could send a word that you’re alright there.
I think about you at night. Somehow I'm certain,
If not my voice, then all I write is overheard there.