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 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. dates of autumn
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. On the tenth date, autumn hands you its keys
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. On the seventh date, the trees stand naked without shame
The second date comes with a clatter of dry leaves skating down the asphalt. You wear a sweater you forgot you owned, and the light tilts sideways after three o’clock.
So you turn your collar up. You walk inside. You leave the door unlocked for the winter because you know now: every ending is just a dark room where the next beginning is waiting to be lit.