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.
On the tenth date, autumn hands you its keys. The pumpkins are collapsed, the leaves are a brown paste on the curb. You stand at the edge of the yard, breathing the last of the woodsmoke, and you realize: the dates of autumn were not appointments to keep, but thresholds to cross— each one a small permission to let go.
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. dates of autumn
The first date arrives shyly, a whisper at dawn— the air holds its breath, then exhales a cool promise. A single maple, embarrassed by attention, tips one branch into gold.
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
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.
The eighth date is a funeral and a feast— the last tomatoes, bruised but sweet, the first frost stitching silver across the grass. You take down the summer wreath, hang up the bone-white gourds. Something in you is dying, something else is being born. The pumpkins are collapsed, the leaves are a
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.