Dates Of Autumn — [best]

On the third date, the apples are heavy and dumb with sugar. A smoke of woodsmoke leans from a chimney before the fire is even lit. You begin to crave things that take hours: bread, patience, the slow undressing of the garden.

The sixth date is the quietest: a fog that swallows the hills, a spider’s geometry glazed with dew, the sound of a single acorn hitting the driveway. You remember every person you have ever loved in October, and you forgive them all. dates of autumn

On the seventh date, the trees stand naked without shame. The sun, tired of its own ambition, slides down the horizon by four. You light a candle before dinner because the dark has become a kind of guest. On the third date, the apples are heavy and dumb with sugar

The fourth date is a wild one— the wind tears down the maples’ modesty, shakes the oaks until they rattle their brown secrets. You find a feather caught in the screen door, and the moon is a thumbnail scraped across black paper. The sixth date is the quietest: a fog

The ninth date: the final hinge before the long cold. You walk through the orchard where nothing is left but a few stubborn crabapples and the memory of wasps. The wind has a new vocabulary— nouns like grief and rest .

Here is the full text for “Dates of Autumn,” an original poetic piece written in the spirit of the season.

By the fifth date, the geese have signed their V’s across the falling sky. Pumpkins turn into lanterns for one brave night, then soften into the ground. You learn that beauty doesn’t last— it only ripens, then releases.