The Fall is a feeling, not a time or place. 

 

It is orange and brown, and the nips of wind blowing.

 

It's broccoli and cheese, and the rustle of leaves 

with their reds and their yellows, and their cinnamon scented talks.

 

It's the park bench wet from the early rain, and the mittens that tap it to the sound of the geese flying away

 

It's warm cider and a pumpkin patch, a hayride and hot chocolate after getting lost for hours in the corn maze. 

 

It's running till the air is piercing your lungs, running towards the warm hugs

 

of the families that came to visit and pass candy and laugh together in their puffy sweaters,

 

as you watch with wide eyes etherial eternity 

 

you never thought would fade away, or miss this much. 

 

Until you're home by the palm trees, remembering Autumn Dreams, 

 

writing of the Child of the Fallen Leaves, while she remembers the deciduous What Used To Be.