Crisp wind slips under collars, leaves crunch like old bones underfoot. Rain taps slow Morse on the window- gray code for stay. Mug steams, socks damp, yet something settles, warm as soup. Branches sway drunk, gold ones bleeding out- still pretty while they rot. You grin at thunder, call it music, pull me close so breaths match. Fall does that: cools the blood, reminds us we're not iced yet.
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Author:
ROSHI (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: November 22nd, 2025 13:50
- Category: Nature
- Views: 19
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments2
Some wonderful images here
Thank you, I don’t like the cold rain but it’s soothing.
It certainly can be
I love the merging of the decomposed with beauty and the focus on the good in what is. A mental state of stoicism in the positive sense. Lovely wording and images a fave
Thank you my friend. I take your words with happiness
You are most welcome
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