Beckoning

 I am sitting in a warm car christened by an August sun. The cusp of early fall collides with a late summer. The heat is winding down and so am I.
 Autumn thus far has been in consistent mourning. The poetic fluctuation between grief and nostalgia has woven its story like a blanket I can wrap up in. I reach for it and cloak myself in anticipation as every cell writes another fluid, hopeful strand for the season ahead. The dull tune of my watch ticking in the distance beats. The hum of the autumnal equinox composes its tune between bars of who I was and who I will be. My present self strums a melodic golden chord of warm, authentic conversation into the still air. I hear myself.
 I am dust and I am woman. I am amber and I am Autumn. I am foolish and in love, I am too wise and aging-hearted. I am the melancholic lull of a belly-laugh record on repeat-familiar and haunting-like the worn-in cushions of a sinking porch swing creaking. My lantern is on and my words are ready.

 This fall will not be voiceless.

 Autumn, come move me.